


The Thin Line

by Arsenic



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Captivity, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Long Live Feedback Comment Project, Loss of Identity, M/M, Prisoner of War, Rape Recovery, Torture, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:48:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 37,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25851598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arsenic/pseuds/Arsenic
Summary: In a world where Halward Pavus realizes Dorian will never be the heir he wants, he instead sends him off to war at seventeen.  Dorian isn't killed, but he is taken prisoner.Two years later, the Inquisitor sends her bodyguard to discuss precisely what the Qun mean when they say "alliance."  Things don't go quite to plan.
Relationships: Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 145
Kudos: 321
Collections: The Adoribull Big Bang 2020





	The Thin Line

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thank you to Tangeriner for checking for canon-type issues. She informed me of the ones I made. I promptly ignored her advice. But at least I know what I did wrong! 
> 
> Another shout out to ihearttwojacks and teeelsie for their SPAG betas and tightening this work up/smoothing it out. Any mistakes remaining are because I'm stubborn.
> 
> Thank you to muchymozzarella for running this BB despite how crazy things have been.
> 
> Last, but DEFINITELY not least, thanks to my artist, who went hella above and beyond, creating three pieces, rather than one, all of them gorgeous and SO in keeping with the feel of the story, halwardpavushatersclub. Please go look at his art and feed it [here](https://halwardpavushatersclub.tumblr.com/post/626206823562821632/i-had-the-pleasure-of-illustrating-arsenicjades).

The age of eligibility for Tevene’s army was nineteen, but of course, the legality of anything was hardly a matter of concern for the House of Pavus. It was the work of a simple missive on his father’s part to have Dorian granted a commission, despite him having barely turned seventeen.

Objectively, Dorian could admire the simplicity of his father’s plan. Sole heir not conforming to your dictates? Send him off to die in a blaze of glory; make a new one. The less elegant element of the whole plan was the fact that Dorian had no plan to roll over and die, but he was willing to acknowledge that the odds were stacked against his survival. 

For one thing, the troop to which Dorian was assigned was overwhelmingly Soporati, all of them older than him, and with an understandable disdain for their new commanding officer. Dorian’s commanding officer, in turn, was career army and clearly less-than-pleased at having to take on “some Brat Altus,” as he’d stated to Dorian’s face. 

Dorian, for his part, did what he had learned to do from the moment he had sussed out that most of his cohort hated him for this talent, and his parents would never accept his preference for men: made it seem as though nothing could touch him. He was one of the most talented Alti in ages, a Pavus, bred for perfection. What others thought of him was immaterial.

Occasionally, he could get himself to believe it. What mattered, though, was that _others_ believed he believed it.

He trained with an intent unmatched by anyone in the unit, practiced his magic with a diligence that would have shocked even the instructors who had admired him most, and at night, he sat outside and wrote letters to Felix and Maevaris. Letters full of scandalous, wonderful lies both would no doubt see right through, but they made Dorian feel heady and brave and important, rather than small and alone and scared.

As an emotional survival technique, it wasn’t the worst he’d ever come up with. As an actual survival technique, well. Dorian couldn’t find it in himself to be surprised when his third foray into active combat involved the whole of his unit abandoning him on a field of Qunari, their terrifyingly bound mages and all.

Dorian lasted longer than most, longer than he’d have thought he could, but eventually it was clear all options for retreat had been cut off, and there were so, so many more of them than him. Conserve as he might, his mana was running low, which meant his shielding was weakening.

The blow that took him down came from behind, shattering right through the rear guard of his shield and connecting with his skull. There was only a second of sharp, bright pain. Then, nothing.

* * *

Dorian woke up vomiting. Well, dry-heaving. His throat could barely manage to contract, and his hands came up, scrabbling at the collar locked tightly around his neck. It made it impossible to bend his neck at all, and was tight enough that even when the worst of the nausea had passed, breathing was still a chore.

Dorian would have accepted any of that with ease if the thing hadn’t been cutting off his magic, any touch of connection to the Fade. He’d never had one put on him before, but he _knew_ of them, all mages knew, and the feeling of being severed from a part of himself that had always been there was causing panic. His breath came in sharp, quick pants. 

Wherever he was being held was dark and damp, but thankfully not cold, as his robes and smalls had been removed. He forced his hands away from the collar, which clearly wasn’t going anywhere, and made himself feel out the space around him. 

He was kneeling on what felt like stone, and stone seemed to surround him in a circle, all within an arm’s distance. An Orlesian term came to mind, oubliette, something Dorian had read about in a book regarding…he couldn’t remember just then, but it was of no consequence. He wasn’t being held in some Orlesian province; he was most likely in a Qunari encampment.

His birthright was missing along with the rest of his clothing, which meant they would know who he was. Not that it mattered. The Qun didn’t ransom, and even if they had, Dorian had no delusions that either his mother or father would pay. 

But they’d had kept him alive. That…did not bode well.

Dorian took in a shaky, hard-to-manage breath. The pain in his head spiked and he had to swallow down another bout of dry heaving. He reminded himself, silently, that he was Dorian Pavus, powerful necromancer, prodigy of his age, bred for greatness.

He ignored the fact that he felt like a kid; hurt and far from everything familiar.

* * *

The cover to Dorian’s prison came off without warning. Light flooded in, causing him to go blind for several moments. In that time, something was hooked into the back of the collar, and Dorian found himself dragged upward by it, air cut off, crashing into the stone wall of his circular cell at the quick jerk of it.

He hadn’t managed to take a breath, let alone re-establish a breathing pattern, when he was being dragged by his ankles. His skin scraped along the ground, being abraded by the sticks and stones and dust and general debris of it. Just when Dorian really thought he would lose consciousness again, he was pulled upright by his hair, shoved down a set of stairs, and tossed into something more like a traditional dungeon cell.

This one had a bit of room to move about, bars making up a single wall, and a bucket. Dorian choked out, “Ah, luxury,” upon seeing it.

The Qunari who’d hurled him inside and was currently setting the padlock on the bars, sneered at him, but didn’t otherwise react. Dorian watched as the Qun walked back up the stairs, and, when he was reasonably sure no one was there to see, folded in on himself and allowed the aftershocks to come. The worst of it passed in a wave of nausea and dizziness, and only then did Dorian manage to take a deep enough breath that it felt like receiving actual air.

The side that had borne the worst of the dragging throbbed, and the extra dust now in his mouth made it achingly apparent how thirsty he was. He closed his eyes, forehead to his knees. The lack of the Fade still pressed in on him, an otherworldly claustrophobia, a bloodless amputation.

Dorian had not thought he could be more alone than out there, on that field, surrounded by enemy warriors twice his size. He’d been wrong.

* * *

A few days into his captivity, Dorian awoke, having finally managed to drift off, to the shock of cold, nearly-frozen water hitting him. He threw his hands in front of his face more out of panicked instinct than sense. It took a few moments for his brain to comprehend what was happening, the two Qunari standing outside his cell, tossing buckets full of frigid water at him. Dorian couldn’t escape it, but as soon as they left, taking the buckets, he leaned down and contorted himself, licking up as much as he could. It was the first time in over a day he’d had access to water at all, and his head was pounding with dehydration.

Well, he was fairly certain it had been over a day. The cell had no natural light, so he was depending on things like bodily functions, sleeping patterns, the times when they deigned to feed him, and number of visits, to inform his estimation of these things. He was aware it was not a fool-proof system. Especially given they probably were using at least some of those things to mess with his sense of time.

Dorian was just barely starting to warm up again, the last of the water drying in the heat of what was most likely at least mid-day, when one of the Qunari who’d been tasked with interrogating Dorian the past few days made his way down the stairs. Dorian dredged up a smile and asked, “Were the qalaba tiring of your attentions?”

His array of Qunari-specific insults was, admittedly, not vast, but he wasn’t going to let a little thing like cultural and linguistic differences exacerbated by a few hundred years or so of on and off war get the best of him. Hardly.

This particular Qunari was the smallest of the three, not that that was saying much. Dorian was tall for a seventeen year-old human, but even this interrogator had a solid foot on him, not to mention easily about fifty pounds. And what he didn’t have in size, he made up for in sheer viciousness.

The others, Dorian suspected, were taking their time, waiting for the hunger, thirst, and exhaustion to do half the work for them. This one had broken one of Dorian’s ribs in their last session. Still, it was beyond him not to press his fear down, smile with all his teeth, say things he knew burrowed under the Qunari’s skin.

The Qunari entered the cell, locking it behind him. “Such a clever Basra.”

“We’re not just bred for our looks,” Dorian told him, straight-faced. 

“How about you use your clever tongue to tell me the number of Tevene troops quartered on the Eastern border?”

“Or I could tell you what your Tama said last night,” Dorian replied.

Being perfectly honest, he hadn’t expected that to get much of a reply. Sure, he’d been working on figuring out the equivalent of disrespecting a parent in Qun culture, but as he understood it, Qun didn’t have family units, per se. It wasn’t…it didn’t have the bite.

Only, it must have had some bite, because the next thing Dorian knew, he was halfway across the cell, on his side, his face on fire. He tried blinking, the pain really was…considerable. 

“Right, then,” the Qunari said, as if he hadn’t just backhanded Dorian hard enough to make him see stars. “Your mouth is a problem. Let’s see if we can solve that.”

Dorian flailed as he was dragged back onto his knees by the collar. He couldn’t seem to get his mouth shut, as if his jaw had—oh. His jaw was dislocated. The Qunari dropped him and Dorian pressed his fingers to the floor, trying to catch his breath now that the collar wasn’t preventing him from breathing entirely. His nose felt swollen, like maybe it was out of place as well.

He was about to try and move his jaw again, when something was shoved into his mouth, forcing it wider. Dorian screamed. He didn’t intend to, but it was almost as if he could feel bone grating in his cheeks, being forced to hold there. 

If he’d been capable of thinking past the pain, Dorian might have foreseen the cock being shoved down his throat. As it was, between the collar and the pain, panic wasn’t even close to what happened, the way Dorian’s heart tried to escape from his chest, the way he fought uselessly to escape, the Qunari’s hand easily holding the back of Dorian’s head, keeping Dorian exactly where he wanted him.

Dorian lost track of…everything. Time, breath, fear, pain, he just rode the waves as they came, unable to think of a way to get it to stop, to break free.

When it was over, cum coating his throat, his face, breaths coming in high, terrified whines, the Qunari said casually, “You’re good at that. Be selfish not to share.”

* * *

Dorian chose a place in his mind when he vomited on the fourth—fifth?—cock to hit the back of his throat, and whomever it belonged to used the ratchet to open Dorian’s mouth wider, causing something in his jaw to feel like it was tearing.

It was quiet and warm. Smelled of books and the spices in a good cup of coffee. Dorian clung to it the way he would have to the Fade, could he have reached it.

When they were done, Dorian could not have told you how long that was, how many had used him, any pertinent information. The gag was removed from his mouth by one of their mages, a mask hiding any humanoid features it might have had, its mouth sewn shut. Its hands applied a wet cloth to broken, dried lips, and the tacky, flaked layers on his face. Those same hands reset his jaw, urged him to drink something that smelled of neither magebane nor water, and could have been anything. Dorian did not have the energy to fight. 

It was evidently a healing draught, as he woke later with a face and throat only half so swollen as they had been, his jaw workable, if still pretty agonizing.

He also woke to the sight of the same Qunari who had begun it all, Runt, as Dorian decided would be his nickname. Runt sneered at Dorian and asked, “Ready to talk, ‘Vint?”

Dorian considered the question and decided, no. No, he wasn’t ready at all.

* * *

_Roughly Two Years Later_

The Inquisitor’s back was drawn tense. Bull couldn’t blame her; she had enough problems without this potential new one. He looked over at Cullen and Josephine, both of them still frowning down at the missive Leliana had brought. Slowly, he said, “An alliance.”

Briarill made a rude sound but didn’t turn around. Bull thought he should probably feel insulted, but he couldn’t find it in himself. Not when the Qun’s proposal was probably a trap for her. Cullen glanced up. “It’s a bit…unexpected.”

Josephine tapped a finger on the desk. “What do you think?”

Bull held out a hand for the letter and read it a few times before saying, “Not sure.”

Briarill turned then, lifting one eyebrow, stretching the vallaslin surrounding her eyes so it was no longer symmetrical. “If my Ben-Hassrath doesn’t know, then who would?”

It was an interesting phrasing, and Bull was certain she knew that. “What’re you thinking, Boss?”

She looked over at Cullen, who stilled. He was the head of her military, and, Bull knew, something far more intimate in their private moments. Bull had yet to see the man try and influence her decisions off the actual field of battle. Josephine, however, nodded her head.

Briarill said, “Go. Take your Chargers with you. See if you can figure out what they really want before I dedicate any more resources to….” She shook her head. “Just. Go talk to your people.”

Bull drew in a breath through his nose and tried to appreciate the fact that he was being given a chance to choose where his loyalties lay. It stung more than it had any right to. “Sure thing.”

* * *

Never once in the week that it took to reach the nearest Qun outpost did Krem—or any of the Chargers, for that matter, including Dalish—say, “This is a terrible idea,” but it was writ large in their body language. Bull had considered leaving them at Skyhold, taking Cullen up on his offer of some Templars, maybe a few of the scouts. But Krem had caught wind of what was happening, and Bull tried not to get into fights with his employees when he wasn’t sure he could win. It was more comforting than it should have been to have them at his side. 

That said, he left them outside the encampment, in a defensible position. Then he went to make contact with the fort’s Kithshok. When Bull found him, the man nodded in greeting. “Hissrad. We were of the belief that a message would be sent accepting the alliance.”

“The Inquisitor has some concerns. I informed her I would speak of them to you, make certain we are all in agreement as to what the terms of the alliance are.”

Kithshok was older than Bull, probably by a good ten years. He watched Bull like one would a…saarebas, Bull thought. Slowly, he asked Bull, “A Hissrad was incapable of convincing an elf of his own people’s intentions?”

Something cold crawled up Bull’s spine even as he said, “It is not just the Herald. She leads an army, a diplomatic corps, practically a city.” A movement.

Kithshok stared at him. “Very well. My next few hours are spoken for, but I shall meet with you this evening. In the meantime, would you like to try your hand at some interrogation work?”

It was only because Bull was a professional that his eye didn’t fly open. All else aside, whether the Qun hierarchy believed he was as loyal as required or no, giving him command of an interrogation was an odd move to make in this instance. 

Kithshok continued, “I imagine it’s been a while, might do to brush up your skills. The Arishok would most certainly be grateful were you to succeed, the prisoner hasn’t spoken in nearly two years. At this point, he’s kept more to train new interrogators than out of any hope for actual information, although, as he was an Altus, there’s little doubt that if he were to break, some of it would still be of use.”

An Altus. That was strange. Aside from the fact that they weren’t precisely easy to capture, it was usually safest just to kill them upfront. But this one had been kept for two years. Bull’s instincts were screaming at him to walk away, that nothing added up. His curiosity, though, which had always been one of his biggest weaknesses, won out. “Sure, I’ll give it a shot.”

Kithshok’s smile was not friendly.

* * *

Dorian woke to the sound of the prison door. He had a rule about sleeping, which was: do it when you can. No matter what the circumstance. Often, they kept him awake for days at a time just to see if this would be the instance where he broke. So when they weren’t on one of those rolls, Dorian slept. 

The sound of the door was too loud, the way most things were these days. He’d gotten used to the empty ache of not being fed enough, the cracking of his skin from dehydration, but the constant headache was harder to completely acclimate to, affected by sound, and light, and movement, as it was. He drew a slow breath in through his nose. As he’d lost weight from the lack of food, the Qun had tightened the collar, making certain it would cut off his airflow if he wasn’t careful.

On the exhale, he opened his eyes and worked like hell not to let them go wide in fear or to show any of his panic. Standing outside the bars was far and away the largest Qunari he’d ever seen, in two years of seeing nothing _but_ men of the species. His horns were probably each the length of Dorian’s torso, he had scars that had scars, and he was wearing an eyepatch Dorian was pretty sure wasn’t for the sake of fashion.

Dorian forced himself to stay exactly where he was. He wasn’t within reach of the bars, not even considering the giant’s arm-length. And if the giant came inside the bars, huddling wasn’t going to make a bit of difference.

The giant said, “Vashedan,” quietly, as though it wasn’t meant for Dorian’s ears. And then, in Common, “You’re a kid.”

It was startling enough that Dorian blinked. He was pretty sure he was close to old enough to join the Tevinter military without a magister greasing the wheels, now. Dorian had long since stopped feeling even the urge to actually give voice to any smartass answers that came to mind, let alone anything else, but there was more of a tug than usual to snipe back. Instead, he drew himself up into sitting position, and leveled his most sardonic expression at his newest torturer.

The giant said, “I am—” there was an odd hesitation, then, “Hissrad.”

Ben-Hassrath, then. There’d been a number of them in the early days, in and out. Now it was only ever trainees between Antaam officers who wanted a go at the Stubborn ‘Vint. 

Hissrad said, “You’re Dorian Pavus.”

Dorian closed his eyes, feigning boredom. He kept his ears focused, though. They were honestly more useful at this point, after living in darkness for as long as he had. He tucked his chin on his knees. 

The silence went on for longer than Dorian was comfortable with, long enough that when Hissrad said, “You give me something of value, anything, and I’ll kill you quick,” he almost startled. Almost. Instead, he opened his eyes, trying to assess the man’s sincerity. It was a good offer. Dorian wouldn’t even have to give up that much, probably nothing that would cripple Tevinter. Maybe House Pavus, but then, well. Hardly as if that mattered, was it? And then this would be over. The hunger and pain, the violations, most of all the constant sense of screaming emptiness that never stopped, no matter how long he was cut off from the Fade.

Dorian was still mulling the offer over when Hissrad swore again, under his breath, and stalked out. Dorian allowed himself to feel disappointed at the loss of a possible opportunity for escape, even if not an ideal one, and then laid back on the side that didn’t have broken ribs at the moment, taking a second to settle so that most of his weight wasn’t on the most recent whip weals, and went back to sleep.

* * *

If not for the shape of his knee and his awareness that appearances must be maintained, Bull would have run back to camp. As it was, nobody even hesitated to get out of his way as he swept from the base. He nearly ran over Rocky when he reached where the Chargers had settled, and Stitches said, “Whoa, there, Chief, breathe.”

Skinner already had her knives out, looking ready, and Bull found himself choking on laughter, bitter and thick in his mouth.

Krem appeared at the flap of one of the pitched tents and asked, “Should we be fleeing?”

Bull closed his eye and then opened it when all he saw was the kid, more bones than skin, more scars than bones. He’d been favoring one side, probably had broken ribs, breathing and swallowing cautiously against the collar that was practically strangling him. There’d been a patch of hair missing, his scalp bleeding sluggishly where skin had ripped out with it. Mostly, though, it was his eyes. The dagger-edge of intelligence in the silver-gray, the way he’d immediately seen the wisdom in accepting Bull’s “mercy.”

A plaything to teach young spies how to hurt, how to ask the right questions, apply enough pressure. Kept alive for the value of his pain more than anything at this point. Two years, the Kithshok had said. He couldn’t have been more than…sixteen? Perhaps seventeen. Two years of silence and pain. Bull wasn’t even certain the worst blood mages deserved that, and he doubted the kid in there’d managed to rise to that level quite yet before his capture.

Also, people who only lived for their own end didn’t keep quiet for two years to protect a nation that had clearly abandoned them. The whole thing was making Bull want to be sick.

“Chief,” Krem said, and now all of the Chargers were there, watching him.

Bull said, slowly, “If I hadn’t stepped in, if I hadn’t…they’d have killed you.”

Krem frowned, looking more than a little concerned. “Probably. Still didn’t mean you owed it to me.”

Perhaps not. But Bull wasn’t entirely convinced Krem hadn’t been owed the kindness, in and of itself, would never be convinced of that. “They have a prisoner. An altus. Dorian Pavus by name, kid had his bloody birthright on him. He’s…he’s younger than you were when we met.”

Krem shared a look with Grim before saying, “He’s an altus, Chief. Probably raped his way through slaves before he even reached his Harrowing and thinks the Venatori have the right of it.”

Bull glanced over at Dalish, who twisted up her face and asked, “How young?”

“I—no older than twenty. I doubt that old.”

Krem ran a hand over his face. “Pavus. It’s…there’s something—how would an altus be captured and held without rescue in the first place?”

Bull tilted his head. He’d wondered the same thing. The only answer he’d come up with that made any sense was, “They wouldn’t. Not unless someone wanted it that way.”

Krem paced a bit. Rocky said, “Just to be clear, we’re thinking about the seven of us sneaking into an Antaam settlement, pulling a ‘Vint mage kid from a guarded prison, and then running all the way back to Skyhold with said stolen prisoner and probably half the Qun on our asses and hoping that doesn’t cause another war or the Elven boss we work for to kill all of us? That’s what we’re pondering here?”

Bull looked over at Krem, who shrugged. Bull nodded. “Yeah, that’s a good summation.”

“Except for the part about how you’ll be Tal-Vashoth. He left that part out,” Skinner said.

Bull took a breath. “Yeah. Yeah, he did.” None of them understood what that meant, not really. They knew it caused madness, but the Chargers were a group of individuals who had never known what it meant to belong to something, at least not outside the mercenary group itself. They understood that it scared him, but not that it meant stripping off something more integral to his being than his skin.

“You didn’t owe me your eye,” Krem said. “And you sure as shit don’t owe some little shit born with a silver spoon up his ass your allegiance to your people, your…your sense of self.”

Krem wasn’t wrong, not in the way he was framing it. The problem was, it was the incorrect frame. “I owed it to myself to do the right thing in that tavern, Krem Puff. That’s—that’s still the only thing I owe myself, really. Above—” Bull swallowed, “above my allegiance to the Qun. I…I might as well call myself Liar, strip away the title to its barest meaning and just—”

He felt like he couldn’t breathe. Into the echo of his panic, Dalish oh-so-calmly said, “Personally, I think it’s been far too long since we did something this amazingly stupid.”

Bull laughed for the second time since walking into the camp, but this time it was clean, punched out of him like an arrow to the chest, sure, but real all the same. Grim actually snickered and Rocky said, “You have a good point.”

“Okay then,” Krem said, clapping his hands together. “Let’s put together a plan that will totally go to crap the moment we enact it.”

“Horns up,” Skinner said.

Bull thought maybe he’d been wrong about where he belonged for a long time, now. He tucked the consideration away for later. There was planning to do, in the meantime.

* * *

The most recent trainee who’d been working on Dorian had him chained prone, with his stomach to the floor. He was focusing very concentrated bursts of fire on the soles of Dorian’s feet. When he could think past the pain, Dorian regretted not being quicker to take the Ben-Hassrath’s offer earlier that day. It did him no good, he knew. Might as well wish he wasn’t prisoner. Kaffas, might as well wish he wasn’t exclusively sexually interested in men.

He screamed as one of the areas that was already burnt received a second blast. It was probably because he’d been screaming that he missed the—no doubt significant—thump of the Qunari falling over. Then there was a moment of extreme disorientation where Dorian thought maybe he’d actually lost his mind because he heard a voice say in Tevene, “Give us a moment.”

Dorian blinked and then realized he was hearing the sound of locks being picked. It took effort and the willingness to cut off his air supply for a couple of seconds, but he managed to turn his head so he was facing the door. Wherein he saw a human and an elf. He blinked again, this time to try and figure out if he was seeing things.

The elf got the door open and immediately knelt down, working to open the chains that were pinning Dorian. Dorian had questions, so many questions, but after so long of choosing not to talk, he wasn’t sure where to start, or even if he could form words anymore. Probably, it just…felt alien to think.

The man said, still in Tevene, “My name is Krem, we’re going to get you out. I realize you’ve got no reason to trust us, but—”

The second the chains clicked open, Dorian stood. And came very close to vomiting from the pain of putting weight on his feet. Krem said, “Yeah, okay, clearly you’re on board. Here, clothes.”

Dorian worked to dress as quickly as he could, given how badly he was shaking. He bit straight through his lip when putting the shoes on, but managed to stay quiet. Krem asked, “Are you able to run? I know it’s not ideal.”

Dorian nodded. If it would get him out of here, he thought he might have managed to run with broken legs. 

“Okay,” the elf said. “Follow, don’t get lost.”

Things got hazy after that. Dorian concentrated on the elf’s back and on not passing out, vomiting, or screaming. Dorian always, _always_ wanted his magic back, but right then the lack was so devastating it felt like a wholly new form of torture. But the elf was good with knives, and Krem could hold his own against Qunari in a fight. 

At some point they made it out, past the gate of the settlement, and there was another human there, with horses. Krem asked, “Any sign?” and the man grunted, which seemed to mean something to Krem.

They got Dorian up on the horse. He was thankful that evidently settling into a proper riding stance was still buried in his muscle memory. The new guy mounted behind him. The friction against some of the open weals on Dorian’s ass and back was going to be murder. Dorian breathed the night air and didn’t care. Didn’t care if he died the next moment, honestly, so long as he got to do it outside, with the late-night warmth curling all around him, the breeze on his face.

They rode a little ways before they met up with a third human, a dwarf, and a second elf. Dorian might have been falling asleep on his mount when the biggest horse he’d ever seen—much bigger than Dorian would have imagined existing—came _flying_ toward them with the Ben-Hassrath from earlier riding. For a drawn out, sickening second, Dorian expected the alarm to be sounded, all of this to have been for naught. Instead, Hissrad shouted, “Horns up,” which the rest of the group all responded to in some type of fashion and then they were riding hard.

Dorian clenched the reins of the horse and was grateful for the hold of the man behind him. Healthy, Dorian could have managed this with ease. Right now, he didn’t entirely trust himself not to fall off the horse. He officially had more—so many more—questions, and kind of wondered if he was still going to be killed.

Despite the pain and fear and complete uncertainty, Dorian found himself laughing in sheer delight at being on a horse, the wind fresh on his face, having heard Tevene spoken to him. He could worry when they started to slow or showed their intentions toward him. He would hold this moment of freedom with his bloodied hands, and woe to anyone who attempted to tear it from him.

* * *

They rode the horses as far and long as they could. To all evidences, they’d lost their Qun pursuers after the second of the minefields Rocky had set. Nonetheless, they’d taken a circuitous route that involved cutting through some pretty heavy vegetation. It hadn’t been an easy ride.

They stopped upon finding a cave formation they could use for shelter and make defensible. Bull dismounted and was seeing to his horse, sneaking glances over at where Grim had gotten down and held up a hand to help Dorian. Dorian took the hand and stood in the saddle, only to hit the edge of his limits, make a not-entirely-human sound, and pass out.

Thankfully, Skinner had clearly expected this and was standing by to help Grim get Dorian down without further injuring him. Bull said, “I suppose that was predictable.”

Stitches was looking him over. “With the extent of these injuries, it’s a little surprising it didn’t happen earlier.”

“Adrenaline’s quite the drug,” Bull said.

Krem was already working on getting a tent up, and Rocky said something about scouting for water. In the early-morning light, Bull could tell that Grim’s front was a bloody mess, which meant Dorian had lost a fair amount of blood through the night. Stitches said, “Dalish, can you come look at this collar and see if we can get it off him? He’s having a hard time breathing and the skin around it looks as though it’s been infected and healed repeatedly.”

Dalish muttered, “Not a mage,” under her breath, but did as asked. After a bit of poking she shook her head. “I could be wrong, but I’m pretty sure we take that thing off and he’s gonna make the stuff Rocky does look like child’s play.”

Stitches swore quietly. “Okay.”

Krem had the tent pitched, and Rocky’d returned with some water. He set the pail down and got to work starting a fire. Stitches said, “I’m gonna move him into the tent. I need to get him as clean as I can so I can figure out where to start. Bring me the water as it heats, would you?”

“Got it,” Bull told him. He took a moment after Stitches was in the tent to look over the others. Everyone seemed to be doing all right, given the circumstances. 

He was aware that nothing had hit him just yet, that the adrenaline of the situation was keeping him moving forward. When they were back at Skyhold, when he had the time and space to do so, he would need to come up with a plan for how signs of madness should be handled, for what steps should be taken in the case that he became dangerous.

Now, though, Grim and Dalish had gotten the second tent pitched and they all needed a few hours of rest, at the very least. He looked over at Krem. “Can you handle first watch?”

Krem nodded. “I’ll make the shifts while I’m on it. Go help Stitches like you know you want to, you big nursemaid.”

Bull grinned. He went to grab the first round of heated water and made his way to the tent where Stitches had gotten the kid out of his clothing. The two of them worked in easy silence to get him as clean as possible. He had seven nasty weals on his back, ass, and thighs, all of which had broken open and become irritated during their ride. There were burns on his feet that were showing signs of infection, likely from having been shoved into shoes and the general lack of immunity to be found in someone who was starving and exhausted. 

Three of his ribs were broken, and there was extensive bruising over the much of the rest. Signs of a messily healed break graced his left arm and his nose. Scars covered what Bull would estimate to be a quarter of his skin. Stitches made Bull leave while he checked for more intimate damage.

When Bull came back, all Stitches said was, “We’ll need to keep him on a liquid diet for a little bit.”

Eventually, they’d done what they could, including working an elfroot potion down his throat. Stitches found unbloodied clothes to redress him in, and they bundled him in blankets. Forcefully, Stitches told him, “Go get some rest. We need your head in the game.”

Bull obeyed. He’d gotten them all into this mess. He’d see them out of it.

* * *

Dorian awoke on a horse. He remembered being on a horse before, but he thought they had stopped. It was unusually hard to think, which was making him nervous. The person whose arm was around his waist said, “You’re still safe. We had to get moving. I gave you some more sedative, hoping you’d sleep through most of the ride.”

The accent was Fereldan. Dorian had only heard it once or twice, but it had been different enough to be notable to his ear. He breathed through his nose and thought through the process of asking a question. Something simple. Where are we headed, perhaps. Or, why are you helping me? Anything that might give him some more insight into the situation.

He’d trained himself not, to, though. That to speak was to give in, was to give _up._ Dorian had never been particularly good at either. 

Everything hurt less, which meant, at the very least, Dorian had been given something to help with the pain. The pull of skin in his back told him he’d been at least somewhat patched, though, and rather neatly at that. Nothing made sense.

The Fereldan said, “I’m Francis, but the crew calls me Stitches, since I’m the one who stitches them up. You were in pretty rough shape. I did what I could. Our resident magic user, who is not in any way, shape, or form, a mage, said it’s too risky to take the collar off just yet. I’m sorry, I know it’s got to hurt.”

Dorian sorted through that information. The elf who was clearly magic-capable would have to be this not-at-all-a-mage, and as much as Dorian hated it, he had to admit she might be right. After two years in the thing, he couldn’t guarantee his control, or even that he would have a chance to harness his powers enough to prevent a magical shockwave, for lack of a better way to think about it. Cautiously, Dorian raised his own hand to squeeze slightly at the one Stitches was using to keep Dorian close to him and upright.

“I’ll take that as forgiveness.”

To Dorian’s mind there was nothing to forgive, but that was close enough to what he’d been trying to convey, so he nodded. Stitches asked, “Want me to tell you about the rest of the crew?”

Dorian thought, _please_ , even pursed his lips on the “p.” In the end, all he could do was nod again.

* * *

They were headed south. Dorian wasn’t well-versed in tracking, and there was plenty of Thedas he was unfamiliar with—most of it, really—but there was no mistaking the steady drop in temperature as they proceeded. Dorian had thought he’d known what it meant to be cold. He’d been naïve.

Between this and the fact that he was pretty sure he needed to know where he was being taken, he was beginning to feel a bit panicky. Or, well, more panicky than his baseline level of panic, which was fairly high these days. It didn’t help that he wasn’t certain he had an alternative plan. Of the people who might help him—a small circle to begin with—only one of them had the power to stand against his father, and Dorian wasn’t willing to put any of them in a position where they would have to.

He needed his magic back if he was to have any chance at self-sufficiency. His skills outside of magic were woefully lacking, and nobody was looking for a scholar in magical theory who couldn’t practice. He also needed a little bit more of a lay of the land. While he was certain the horrors visited upon mages in the south were somewhat exaggerated in Tevinter, he couldn’t be sure to what extent. Regardless, the south wasn’t known for being _welcoming_ of Dorian’s kind.

No matter how many ways Dorian turned the problem around in his head through the long hours of riding, no solutions came to mind. The uncertainty of it was almost as exhausting as the pain. Stitches was keeping Dorian pretty well dosed with healing and pain potions, but two years of damage was a lot to undo, particularly with his body underfed and in a constant, losing fight to connect with the Fade.

At some point, they crossed some border, something Dorian missed or that wasn’t physical, just a line on a map, he couldn’t be sure, and Rocky asked, “Inn tonight?”

“Inn,” The Iron Bull, which was what Stitches had informed Dorian Hissrad went by, agreed.

Grim grunted in approval. Dorian just wanted to be warm. The cold of sleeping in tents wasn’t just miserable in terms of temperature, it made every scar, surface or otherwise, ache. And there wasn’t much of Dorian that wasn’t scarred in some way at this point.

It was still several-hours’ time before they arrived at what could only be generously described as a hovel. If Dorian had been up to saying anything, he would have come up with some choice words for the place. And never once mentioned that, being the first solid roof he’d slept under that didn’t belong to a cell in over two years, it actually looked marvelous to him. He wasn’t sure his own room could have held any more appeal at that moment.

Dalish said, “C’mon, then, let’s get you in front of a fire, ‘Vint.”

It was weird to hear that term used by an elf without a thread of hatred underneath. Dorian followed, a fire sounding brilliant, and sat so close when they got inside that Dalish laughed. “Don’t catch on fire. The Bull’d be pretty pissed at me if we managed your daring rescue only to let you accidentally fry yourself.”

Dorian smiled up at her, too happy at being warm again to react any other way. He wanted to say thank you. For the fire, mostly. Thank you was too simple for the rescue, for helping him to heal, for…saving his life. She smiled back, nodding and heading off.

Dorian tucked himself into a ball and rocked a bit. It occurred to him that he probably needed to find a way to pay his rescuers back for their troubles, as well, even assuming there was a way to. At least for the resources spent on him. 

The problems pressed in at him, threatening to shut him down, paralyze him. He made himself decide on the first order of business. He needed to be able to communicate. With that decided, he focused on what he needed to say, and trying to get himself to say it.

He wasn’t any nearer to success when Krem came to fetch him, saying, “Hungry?”

Dorian was, so he rose a little wobblily, and followed Krem to the table the mercs had claimed as their own. Maybe he just needed food, and then he’d be able to talk. Maybe.

* * *

Bull watched Dorian, who was understandably wary and constantly paying attention to his surroundings. But Bull was—had been—a good spy. Dorian had questions, it was clear. It was also apparent he wasn’t going to ask them, at least not verbally. Bull could imagine that if he’d forced himself not to talk for well over a year, he’d have the same problem. But there were non-verbal manners of communication. Once at the lodgings, Bull pulled out the writing materials he’d kept on him for reports and gave them to Rocky.

Dorian was giving Bull as wide a berth as possible. It was sensible, of course. Just made helping him slightly less convenient. Thankfully, the Chargers were cooperating. Well, Rocky, Stitches, Dalish, and Grim were. Skinner and Krem were largely staying out of the way now that their skills weren’t needed. It was enough.

As Bull had expected, Dorian reacted to the writing tools as if they were pure gold. In shaky, but flowing Common he wrote, “Why are you helping me?”

As first questions went, Bull could concede it was probably the only one that really mattered. Bull was content to let Stitches or Rocky handle that, but it was Krem who said, “Well, we like getting into trouble now and then. It’d been a while.”

Dorian didn’t flinch, not quite, but Bull could see the amount of control it took not to. He swallowed back a sigh and was about to try his best to rectify the situation when Skinner said, “It wasn’t right, what they were doing.”

More than one of them blinked in her direction. Dorian wrote, “Our people are at war. I was a prisoner thereof.”

“Maybe at first,” Skinner said. “By the time we got there, you were just a plaything.”

Dorian considered that answer, nodding tightly and writing, “Where are we headed?”

“Skyhold,” Stitches said. When Dorian frowned a bit, he offered, “Fereldan keep in the Frostback Mountains, home of the Inquisition. Anybody mention the hole in the sky to you?”

Dorian eyes widened a bit at that, and he shook his head. Several of the Chargers grimaced. Rocky said, “I’ll catch you up on the ride tomorrow. Suffice to say, it’s a bunch of unlikely allies fighting the end of the world.”

Dorian tapped the quill gently against his index finger and then wrote, “Might I send a message? I believe Magister Tilani of the Imperium might be willing to offer financial aid so as to help me not be your concern for any longer than necessary.”

Krem made a rude noise and left. Dorian watched him go, turning his attention back to Rocky, who sat nearest to him at the table. Rocky, though, was looking at Bull. 

Bull turned the problem over in his head. On the one hand, there was no way to know that this Magister Tilani wasn’t one of the Venatori. On the other, the point of rescuing Dorian hadn’t been to imprison him without trial. Again.

Dorian had set the quill into writing position again when Bull said, “Write your letter. Have her send a response care-of Sister Nightingale at Skyhold Keep.”

Dorian’s, “Thank you,” was simple, elegant, and had the tiniest bit of flourish at the end. Pretty. Bull liked it. 

Leliana would know well enough what to do with any correspondence to or from the Imperium. Now he just had to get Dorian to Skyhold and convince a bunch of Templars led by an elf to rehabilitate him, rather than making him Tranquil. 

Easy.

* * *

_Dear Mae,_

_Remember the week you taught me all those dwarven curses? It remains one of my fondest memories. I have wished to tell you that for two years, and now that I am able, it seems silly, insignificant, really, and yet I find it impossible to begin this letter any other way._

_I have no idea if I am believed to have been killed in action, or if my family was aware I had been taken prisoner. Either way, a group of mercenaries calling themselves the Chargers have liberated me and are apparently taking me to a keep by the name of Skyhold. I am told it is where an Inquisition headquarters itself, and that said Inquisition is the ally-ship of odd bedfellows fighting a rift in the sky. I suppose, not having been held prisoner for the better part of two years, and having your fingers on the pulse of just about everything all the time, you are aware of this body. I was not._

_I do hate to ask, but I’m not entirely certain who else might be able to come to my aid, and as such, I don’t suppose you’d be capable of granting me a small loan? I shall give you my letters, of course, and as soon as I am able, you shall have your capital returned to you with interest. I simply need a bit of help finding my feet at the moment._

_Please reply care of Sister Nightingale, Skyhold Keep._

_In all sincerity,_

_Dorian Pavus_

Dorian considered writing to Felix, but aside from being unsure if his friend was still amongst the living, and not wanting the letter to fall into the wrong hands, he had only asked permission for the one letter. He didn’t need to stir up any more distrust than being a Tevinter altus had clearly already earned him, particularly from Krem and Skinner. Though it pained him, for the moment, Felix would have to wait. Meanwhile, Dorian would hold his breath, and hope that Mae felt half as much goodwill toward him as he did toward her. If not, well. Dorian shook his head. He couldn’t think that far, not just now. He sealed the letter and went to see about sending it off.

* * *

It didn’t take all of the sting out of being Tal-Vashoth, or even close to all the fear that he would slowly begin to lose his mind, but seeing Skyhold in the distance and having the sense of _home_ writ deep in his bones helped a lot to further settle Bull in the decision he had made. It wasn’t as if there was any going back, but it didn’t hurt to have the reassurance.

He wasn’t surprised to find Briarill, Leliana, and Josephine waiting for the Chargers just inside the gates. He’d sent word as soon as he could of the “change in plans,” as he’d termed it. Cullen was also there, Solas a short distance off. Ma’am stood regal next to Cullen.

Dorian got himself off the horse he was riding pillion with Grim, going three shades paler as he hit the ground. Stitches had done fine work, but they’d been riding hard, and Dorian was incredibly underweight. Nothing was entirely healed, his feet least of all, as he’d had to keep using them. Bull said, “Hey Boss, meet my new friend, Dorian Pavus. Dorian, this is Briarill Lavellan, Herald of Andraste, Inquistor, person who keeps me and my boys in feed.”

Briarill was fond of neither mages nor much of anyone from Tevinter, Krem possibly being the exception. But underneath the warrior who would die for a world that had rarely stood her in good stead, and the woman who would make tactical decisions without flinching, was Bull’s friend, and someone who trusted his judgment. Quietly, with the steady voice that had created an army out of little more than refugees, mercenaries, and lost Templars, she said, “I have spoken with those here who could help you remove the collar without harm to yourself and others. There are a number who believe it would be best merely to render you Tranquil.”

Dorian lost what color he’d had left but stood his ground. It occurred to Bull that Dorian had known this was possible, of course he had. By the time tales of Meredith and Kirkwall had reached Minrathous, they’d been even more horrific than the actual events, which was saying something. 

Bull said, “We’re not doing that.”

Dorian blinked. Briarill hid a smile, but not quick enough for Bull to miss it. Cullen looked unimpressed by the pronouncement. Solas was watching them with narrowed eyes. Briarill said, “Oh?”

“We should probably reconsider that course of action,” Leliana said, and it was Bull’s turn to feel blindsided. 

Cullen was the one who said, “What?”

Josephine was struggling valiantly not to roll her eyes at Leliana’s theatrics, if Bull was reading her right, which he mostly did. She said, “The friend he sent his letter to, Maevaris Tilani? She’s…well, she could be an ally. A useful one.”

Dorian moved, then, going to one of the horse packs and digging out something to write with and some paper. Against the saddle he wrote something out and handed it to Leliana, who shared it with Josephine. The latter pursed her lips and said, “We’re not in the habit of enforcing ally-ship, at least not outside of desperation. I _know_ Mae. One of our warriors, Varric Tethras does as well. They were family by marriage at one time. I am merely stating that not pissing her off might be more to our advantage than otherwise.”

“And,” Ma’am chose this moment to speak up, “pain me as it does to say it, the Pavus heir was rumored to be unusually powerful and gifted in necromancy, which is a rare skill. Having him choose of his own will to help us could be considerably more useful than another drone whose care and feeding shall be our responsibility.”

Solas sneered. “And what if, under that collar, he’s as much a ‘Vint as any other?”

Briarill met his eyes and said, “That’s what I have Cassandra, Cullen, and an entire army of Templars for.”

Bull would have laughed, except it was hard with the smell of Dorian’s fear clogging his senses. Briarill diverted her attention to Ma’am and said, “Madame de Fer, I would have you work with Cullen to get the collar safely off Ser Pavus. When you’ve managed that, let me know. In the meantime, he can stay in the barracks, under the watchful eyes of said army of Templars. If anyone has objections, feel free to mumble to yourself extensively. Bull, you and I are getting a drink and you’re explaining to me exactly what our relationship with the Qun is at this time.”

Bull wanted to argue, to at least help Dorian get settled. Instead he said, “Sure, Boss,” and threw Grim a significant look. Grim acknowledged it with a blink. It would have to be good enough for now.

* * *

The Orlesian Enchantress—who called Dorian “darling” with an edge sharper than a butcher knife—and the Templar with the scarred lip, poked and prodded, tested and tampered with the collar for what had to have been hours. By the time they finished, Dorian was sick with holding in the fear. Fear of being surrounded, touched again and again without the seeming awareness that there was a person inside his skin. Madame de Fer eyed him calmly and said, “I believe it can be removed, but not without depressing your power.”

Commander Rutherford said, “Magebane.”

Dorian frowned. They wanted him to take poison? 

Madame de Fer noticed the expression and said, “I agree, it’s not ideal, but neither is having you under a constant barrage of Smites. If you’ve a better idea, I am certain we’re both open to it.”

The Commander looked to be in anything but agreement with that sentiment, and truthfully, Dorian wasn’t certain what other solution there might be. At least he could dose himself with the magebane, even if he had no doubt he would be monitored. The idea of southern templars constantly exerting their will over him…

He lost the battle he’d been fighting for some time and ran to the nearest available waste basin to be sick. It had been some time since he’d eaten—there hadn’t been an opportunity since entering the fortress—and his body was still feeding on itself most of the time, so it was nothing more than dry-heaving.

To his surprise, when the worst of it had passed, the Commander was standing at a fair distance, holding out a cup of water. Dorian inclined his head and took it, rinsing his mouth before swallowing the rest at a measured pace. As he was finishing, Madame de Fer said, “Right, I believe that’s enough for now. Commander, perhaps you’d best show Ser Pavus to his quarters?”

The Commander took the cup back from Dorian and said, “Something from the kitchens first, I think. Then, yes. I’ll get him settled.”

Dorian wished one of the Chargers had come with him. Even one of the ones who didn’t particularly like him. Dorian wished a lot of things, though. Not the least of which was that there had been a choice between staying and being tortured by the Qun and leaving to be used as a pawn by this apparent Inquisition.

He followed the Commander into the kitchens, where he traced “thank you” in Common in flour on a baking surface when given a bowl of hot soup. It was filling and helped with some of the chill that had settled into his bones.

The barracks were too large to be adequately heated, provided no privacy, and were filled with Templars who, the moment the Commander left, gazed at Dorian as if he was the first prey spotted after a long season of hibernation. He wondered if perhaps letting the Qun finish him off might not have been the wiser choice.

* * *

It was a bit like being back in the Circle, really, except for how Dorian had had some level of ability to protect himself from the other mages. Being unpopular for your magical talent wasn’t fun, but it limited the level of bullying rather neatly.

Without access to the Fade, body aching from unhealed wounds and furious travel, and still a good thirty pounds under the lightest he’d ever been, Dorian didn’t have much to work with, and he knew damn well nobody was going to take his word against a group of Templars. Dorian had developed rules over his time in the Circle, his time with the Qun. If you couldn’t fight something, and it wasn’t going to maim or kill you, letting it roll over you was the only reasonable way to handle it.

As such, when they stole the scant bedding he’d been given and then drove him out of the bed, complaining of his shivering, Dorian did the only sensible thing. He sought out the corner of the room furthest from the door, curled into himself as much a physically possible and thought about nice things, soothing colors, flavors he liked, anything that would help his muscles unknot, calm him enough to drop into sleep. It wasn’t ideal, precisely. If they decided to get violent, it would be easy to become surrounded. On the other hand, sneaking up on him wasn’t possible. 

He woke to the feeling of something wet on his cheek. He almost wiped it off before the situation caught back up with him, and he noticed three of the Templars standing around him, mocking smiles on their faces. If they expected a response, though, they’d have to do better that a little spit. The Qun had perfected dehumanization in their own code of living, it was _nothing_ to them to reduce a ‘Vint down to rubble tinier than grains of sand.

Dorian used the wall to push himself to his feet, steeling himself to not show the pain from his muscles having tightened overnight, and the fact that his feet still weren’t wholly healed.

The show of almost-passive defiance might not have been his wisest move, although, honestly, Dorian wasn’t certain it made a bit of difference. One of the Templars kicked out so fast Dorian hardly saw the movement before he felt the pain of a combat boot connecting with his balls. He turned himself so that if he couldn’t control being sick, it would be on the floor, maybe himself, but not one of them. As momentarily satisfying as that would have been, Dorian would really like to live to get his magic back.

He managed to keep his stomach on the inside, but just barely. Thankfully, by the time he was able to stand without the support of the wall, some signal had been given and the barracks were empty. Dorian stood shivering from pain and cold for a few minutes, just allowing himself a moment or so of weakness where nobody could see. Then he took a slow breath, forced himself to walk out the barracks, and into the challenges of the day.

* * *

Bull usually ate at the Rest with the Chargers, but the morning after their arrival, he made certain to be in the main hall. When Dorian came in behind a group of Templars, Bull was glad he’d made the decision. Dorian was holding himself tightly, and looked washed out, as though he’d gotten very little sleep. Bull called out, “Dorian, over here.”

Dorian’s expression wasn’t precisely one of relief, but it would seem that between the Templars and a guy who looked a hell of a lot like the people who’d tortured Dorian for almost two years, the latter was preferable. That was a concern. Grim had reported that Cullen had been the one to get Dorian in the barracks but hadn’t stayed, which meant Dorian had been left to his own defenses with a bunch of people who probably thought the only good mage was a dead or Tranquil one.

Bull rubbed at the back of his neck. He’d have to have a chat with Cullen. In the meantime, he’d give Dorian some breathing room during breakfast and get the kid to eat.

Dorian seated himself across from Bull and managed what might pass for a smile. Bull had heard the kid laughing the night of his escape, he knew the half-cock of Dorian’s lips was the furthest thing from the full breadth of his capacity for joy. Still, Bull smiled back and filled a cup with tea, passing it to Dorian. Bull had noticed on the road that it was generally how Dorian began his mornings.

This morning Dorian took the cup and nearly folded himself into it. Bull frowned. Instead of pestering Dorian about it, though, since Dorian couldn’t talk at the moment and needed his hands to eat and drink, Bull put together a plate, just putting a little of everything on it so Dorian could pick and choose as he so pleased.

It took a bit, but after a few slow sips of tea, Dorian tucked in, cutting everything, the fruit, the bread, even the eggs, into manageable pieces. There was something in the determined steadiness of it all that felt desperately wrong. Still, Dorian finished a decent enough portion and poured himself some more tea, and that was reassuring to Bull.

Cullen ended up finding them, seating himself next to Bull with a quiet, “Good morning.”

“Commander,” Bull said.

“I’ve brought the first dose of magebane,” Cullen said, holding a vial out to Dorian. “Have you taken it before?”

Dorian shook his head. Bull wanted to curse, despite somewhat expecting the answer. Instead he said, “Might make you feel a little sick, from what—well, Dalish had an unfortunate run in with it a few years back.”

Dorian nodded, a tight bob of his head. He unstopped the vial and drank it down, going a bit pale and then more than a bit green as the taste hit. He hurriedly took a few more sips of the tea. Cullen was watching him with an expression Bull couldn’t decipher, which bothered him. Cullen wasn’t usually all that hard to read.

After a moment, Cullen asked, “All right?”

Dorian’s nod was shaky, but there was intent behind it. Cullen said softly, “Right, then. Come with me, we’ll get to work.”

Dorian stood and drew himself up to his full height, which was impressive for a human. It would have been more impressive had all his bones not been visible. Still, Bull admired the show of pride, or, rather, the show of show of pride. He liked that Dorian was clearly willing to fake it until he made it or until it got him killed.

Bull liked the feisty ones.

* * *

The Templar Commander was the one to cut the bolted lock of the collar, and Dorian would have been amused at the irony were he not so sidetracked by the feeling of being able to take a deep breath without choking. He’d forgotten what that was like. Before, Dorian would have told you that a person couldn’t _forget_ the feeling of breathing freely, but as with so many things, he would have been wrong.

When his breathing was returning somewhat to its regular rhythm—and even that was hard, he’d spent so long being careful about breathing in, it had become second nature to cut his breaths off—he noticed the Commander and Madame de Fer watching him as if he was an explosive. He picked up the pen on the working desk in the room and wrote, “The magebane is holding.”

“Yes, that was clear from the fact that you didn’t immolate yourself and everyone in Skyhold the moment our dear Commander removed the collar,” Madame de Fer said. “I believe both of us are thinking there’s no use in doing anything until a healer has seen to the lesions on your neck and you’ve gained enough weight not to fall right over while trying to channel.”

Dorian wished it didn’t feel quite so much like the woman was suggesting he had volunteered for the extent of damage done to him, but was aware she had a point. There was something else, though. He wrote out, “Staff.”

The Commander shifted uncomfortably. Dorian resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Instead, he added, “I can control my powers without one, but not to the same extent, and certainly not to any extent that will be useful to the Inquisition. I believe that’s why you’re helping me at all?”

There was a stillness then, and Dorian knew if he had the energy he’d be scared, but he didn’t. He’d had too little sleep, he hurt all over, he was almost too cold to think, and outside of making him Tranquil, they couldn’t possibly do anything that was worse than he’d lived through. He startled, though, when Madame de Fer laughed, “Oh, so you _are_ still in there, altus.”

Dorian considered glaring, but she didn’t sound condescending, she sounded…pleased? At the very least, relieved.

“Very well,” she said. “Magebane for now. I presume you’ll be wanting to talk to Stitches rather than any of the Inquisition’s healers. Gain another third of your weight back. I will speak with the people to gather the materials for your staff, but you will be responsible for the creation of it.”

Dorian found it in himself to give her a look that clearly read, “Who else, precisely, would I entrust with that?”

To his surprise, it was the Commander, off to his left, who huffed a little at the exchange. He said, “You know I can’t just leave you unsupervised. Not until we’re certain—”

Dorian cut him off by waving a hand. He wasn’t dumb. He might not understand all the politics at play here, but he understood that much.

“All right,” the Commander said. “Come, I’ll take you to where Stitches is likely to be.”

Dorian made a small sign of thanks in Madame de Fer’s direction, and followed the Commander out of the room.

* * *

Dorian followed Cullen to a different set of barracks than the ones he’d spent the previous night in. Once inside, it became clear this was where at least some of the Chargers slept. Stitches was there with Skinner, and a dwarf Dorian didn’t know. Upon their entrance, the dwarf said, “Hey there, Cullen.”

“Varric. Stitches, can you take a look at Dorian’s neck?”

“Of course,” Stitches said, gesturing for Dorian to come closer. “Glad to see that thing off you.”

Dorian smiled a bit in agreement and made himself breathe while baring his neck. The freedom to move it in a full range of motion was glorious, but his muscles were less thrilled to be trying things they hadn’t been allowed in two years, so he did his best to be careful. 

Meanwhile, Varric said, “So you’re the ‘Vint who knows Mae.”

“He doesn’t speak,” Skinner said.

“Ah.” Varric continued, “I’m kin to her late husband.”

Dorian smiled a bit again. He liked people who referred to Mae’s relationship in its proper context. He held out his hand and the dwarf took it in a steady shake. Stitches said, “All right, I need you to stay still. They’ve got you on magebane?”

Dorian nodded. Stitches made a face. “I’ll need to talk to one of the elven healers about whether elfroot will interfere with that. In the meantime, I can use some topical numbing cream while working on you…it’s still gonna hurt.”

It took Dorian a few seconds to get that Stitches was concerned about making this easier for him. When his brain caught up he barked out a laugh that sounded more like a demented mabari than anything, and he leaned in to kiss Stitches on the cheek. It was _sweet._

Stitches huffed and said, “Yeah, all right, message received. Just, for the record, the fact that everyone else has been a bag of dicks to you doesn’t make me feel better about causing you pain, even to heal you up.”

Varric said, “Josie wasn’t being all bardic on me when she said the kid had been through the wars.”

“No,” Stitches shook his head. “That was literal and appropriately metaphorical all at once.”

Dorian worked to place “Josie” and finally remembered the diplomat who’d known Mae. He was going to need to figure out the authority figures in this place and how far their domains extended, sooner rather than later.

Stitches positioned Dorian on a cot and said, “I gotta clean this up first, it’s gonna sting. Nobody’s gonna tell a soul if you make noise, I promise, Dorian.”

Dorian believed him. If he had it in him to do so, though, he would have started talking by now.

* * *

Dorian arrived at the barracks that evening to find his bedding soaked with urine. He made his way to the corner he’d used the night before and hoped that the prank had gotten out their rancor for the evening. It made for another night of uneasy, broken sleep, and his neck was screaming from having repeatedly dropped forward, stretching out unused muscles. Dorian was going to have to find a solution to his sleeping situation. One problem at a time, though. 

In the morning, he was shown to the bathing facilities, which evidently were used by the Templars in groups. Dorian wanted badly to scrub himself until he shined. He went to try taking off his shirt and panic so intense it felt more like being struck with a blade sliced through him. Some of the Templars were snickering, making comments about the “pretty boy,” and questioning whether Tevinter mages actually had human parts under their clothing.

Dorian didn’t even make the conscious choice to leave; he just couldn’t stay. He walked out blindly, kept walking with no intent aside from being _away_ from the threat. He was still functioning purely on instinct when a pair of hands met his shoulders and Dorian _lost it_. He couldn’t even cut off the scream of pure terror before he dropped into a position that would make it easiest for him to protect his most vulnerable places. He wasn’t stupid enough to fight. Not when he needed to be sheltered here at least for a time and everybody seemed to think he was just waiting to kill them all in their sleep and use their blood to summon apocalyptic forces.

It was possible he stopped breathing altogether, because things went very wobbly, and all the noise around him became tinny and then…then things got unfocused and dizzy, and he wasn’t certain what was going on for a bit.

When the world seemed to straighten itself out enough for Dorian to make sense of it, he was lying on a bed in a room that was not the barracks, and The Iron Bull was standing at the end of the bed, talking with someone. Oh, the Inquisitor. Who was sitting in a chair in a corner of the room. Dorian wished with all his might that he could force the issue of just using his voice again. Or, short of that, that there was a writing utensil close at hand.

The Inquisitor—Lavellan, yes—said, “It seems you’ve joined us.”

The Bull said, “Hey there, big guy. You had us a bit worried.”

Dorian sat up, curling his knees to his chest to rest his arms on them. The Bull said, “Oh, sorry,” and grabbed a writing set from a desk in the corner.

Dorian nodded in thanks and wrote, “I apologize, I did not intend to cause anyone heightened anxiety.”

Lavellan read it and touched her fingers to her lips. “Mm. I’m more interested in what caused _your_ heightened anxiety.”

Dorian blanked. There were so many answers possible that a single one was impossible to find. Trying to focus, to latch onto one, caused a laugh to tear out of him, then another. He attempted to choke them back, but the fourth one broke through and then it was as if he couldn’t stop. It hurt, although in a different way from the physical pain.

He wasn’t sure how long it had been when he began to be able to hear Bull talking to him in low, even tones. “All right, Dorian, all right.”

Dorian scrubbed at his face, aware his hand was shaking. He was so tired. 

Bull said, “I’m gonna take a stab in the dark here, and guess that the Templars aren’t being a model of hospitality.”

Dorian shrugged. His penmanship was horrid, but he wrote out, “Compared to my late sleeping quarters, I cannot complain.”

“By which you mean a dungeon,” Bull said. “Where you were tortured.”

Dorian shrugged again.

“I’m sorry.”

Dorian looked at Lavellan in surprise. She sighed. “Sometimes I…well, I think sometimes the war gets inside me, and I forget that if we are to win it, it must be to some purpose, not just so that an equally cruel reign can take the place of whatever it is Corypheus desires.”

Dorian wrote, “You have no reason to be kind to me.”

“I have no reason not to be, though. One of my most trusted warriors has vouched for you, you’ve agreed to all of my conditions, and aside from all that, it’s a shitty way to live, being cruel simply because it’s an option.”

Dorian weighed his options. On the one hand, this seemed something of a good time to get himself into a safer housing situation. On the other, the last thing Dorian needed was to owe anyone else something. 

In the end he was saved from having to decide because Lavellan said, “This room is yours. I’ll speak with Cullen. He’ll get the Templars under control. I’d still be cautious if I were you, neither he nor I can be everywhere, but—at least now you have a door to lock at night.”

Carefully, Dorian wrote, “My gratitude, Ma’am.”

“And you’ll have lunch with me, once a week. Vivienne thinks you’ll have the power and capability to be in my inner circle. Give me the chance to convince you I’m worth it.”

“I am yours to command,” Dorian scrawled. It was nothing more than the truth.

“Not yet,” she smiled. “But you’ll want to be.”

* * *

Bull watched Lavellan leave and thought he probably should, too. The last thing Dorian could possible want was to be alone in a room with a Qunari. Instead, he found himself saying, “I’m sorry.”

Dorian tilted his head. Bull sighed and leaned against the wall. “I brought you here so you’d be safe, not so you could be abused some more.”

Dorian scribbled something and held it up. It read, “You didn’t owe me freedom, let alone safety.”

“Yeah. You have a very low bar for how people treat you.”

Dorian looked away.

A lot of the time spying was about keeping quiet. Sometimes, though, it was about pushing until you found a crack, and then pushing some more, to the breaking point. Bull didn’t like that part, but he couldn’t deny that it was sometimes necessary. “Krem tells me someone would’ve had to do some pretty serious bending of the rules to get you on Seheron as young as you must’ve been. Call me crazy, I don’t think it was you. Maybe you were some belligerent asswipe before you were held prisoner, maybe you really wanted to fight the Oxmen. More likely, though, I think a magister somewhere found you inconvenient.”

Dorian looked at him blankly. Bull just waited. Eventually, Dorian wrote, “My father.” The words were blockier than his usual script.

“Koslun’s balls.”

Dorian smiled at him, all teeth, all the more grim for the too-sharp bones of his face. 

Suddenly, Bull remembered why it was that he’d even been looking for Dorian when they’d all-but collided in the courtyard as Dorian was coming apart at the seams. Bull grabbed a letter from his back pouch. “Your friend wrote you. Leliana read it, of course. Nobody else, though, promise. Do you—is she the only person you’ve got?”

Dorian held his hand out for the letter, which Bull handed over. Dorian wrote, “People love me,” all of his downstrokes particularly harsh.

With utter sincerity, Bull asked, “What’s not to love?”

Unsurprisingly, Dorian didn’t take the query as being unironic and turned his back on Bull to read the letter. Bull said, “All right, I’ll leave you to that. Rest up.”

Dorian made a dismissive gesture with _almost_ enough flippancy to be convincing. Almost.

* * *

_Dearest,_

_It was with no small degree of surprise that I received your letter. If Halward ever learned of your captivity, it was a bit of information he kept to himself. He informed the Magisterium that you were killed in action, and you were buried with high honors less than a year after your commission was granted. We shall have to discuss what, if anything, you wish to do about that._

_I suppose I should inform you that you have a sister, Honorata._

_I should also, perhaps, inform you that I am quite pleased to have received your letter, unattractive shock-value and all. And, to my great regret, I must let you know that Felix Alexius succumbed to the blight last year. I know the two of you were close._

_Aside from correspondence with my late-husband’s kinsman, Varric Tethras, I have been biding my time in showing support for the Inquisition. I am not certain how clear you are on the politics, but let us just say they are…considerable. Nonetheless, Southern Templar-allied though it is, I do believe it is a good place for you. I believe it is a place where you can be who you were meant to be._

_Please respond letting me know how you are coming along, and perhaps we can arrange a rendezvous. I would very much enjoy seeing your smile again. Regarding your requests for funds, I’ll need to create channels through which I can safely send them, I apologize, pray be patient._

_Yours, Mae_

* * *

Cole fluttered around Bull in the way he was wont to do when he wanted to help with something and couldn’t figure out where the line of help and hurt had been drawn. Bull finally pulled him down into one of the chairs, settled him with a glass of watered-down ale and said, “What’s on your mind, kid?”

“Black skies, all black, and can’t swallow, can’t breathe, can’tcan’tcan’t.”

“Yeah,” Bull sighed. “I know. But some things take time to fix.”

Cole seemed to fold in on himself a bit. “He’s in pain.”

It was said softly, like a thought not meant to be voiced, sad and uncertain. Bull nodded. “In a lot of ways, yes.”

“Alone. So…so alone.”

“No,” Bull told him with certainty. “That’s what he _thinks_. And it’s not foolish or even hard to understand, but he’s not alone, is he? You’re here trying to help and you don’t even know him. I’m trying to help him, Briarill’s come over. I think Josie’s mulling on it now that we know this acquaintance of hers really is a friend. Stitches is definitely keeping an eye out, and now that it’s clear there’s a problem, Cullen’s got himself paying attention. Dorian has people to help him, he just doesn’t really know that, yet. And after years of truly being alone, it’s going to be hard for him to really know.”

“Cole—” Cole fiddled with his hat. “Cole wants to help.”

Bull smiled. “I know. And I bet before this is over, we’ll need your help.”

Cole tilted his head. “The Iron Bull will let Cole know?”

“You got yourself a promise on that one, kid.”

* * *

“Play chess?” 

Dorian peered over the rim of his morning tea at the Commander. After a long moment, he nodded. It had never been one of his strengths, but Dorian liked games, and he wasn’t stupid enough to alienate this man who could either extend some level of protection, or declare open season on him.

“My sister, she used to say sometimes it’s easier to talk if you’re not thinking so hard about it.”

Dorian blinked at that. The Commander smiled. “I mean, she’s just shy. It’s different, I know. But can’t hurt, right?”

And, well…the man had a point. Something Dorian hadn’t tried was just relaxing and distracting himself. It was worth a try, in any case. Dorian finished his breakfast. He found himself actually hungry this morning, perhaps simply a side effect of a good night’s sleep and the slowly lessening amount of pain in his body. Even hungry, he wasn’t capable of eating much, but it was reassuring to finally feel true stirrings of in interest in food.

After the meal, the Commander and he went to Madame de Fer’s quarters. He hadn’t yet taken a dose of magebane this morning, and he could feel the Fade, although it still seemed just a touch out of his reach. Even that distance would wear off in an hour or so, and then they could see where his control was, with the buffering force of the enchantress’s brand of magic. Dorian had been raised to be dismissive of Southern magic, Orlesian included. He’d also been raised to be dismissive of elves and soporati and quite a few others who’d shown him considerably more kindness and mercy than his father.

If two years of darkness and pain hadn’t made him rethink the world, this place would have. This group of people who found a way to fit their cracked parts together, but didn’t use that bond to keep others out. It was…alien. Warming.

Terrifying.

It didn’t help that accessing his magic went directly to shit without even pausing to consider other options. When the poison wore off, when he could touch the Fade, the feel of it was so all-encompassing, so glorious, so like coming home to a home he hadn’t even known he had, Dorian all but set the entire room on fire, rather than lighting the logs in the grate as he’d been trying to do. As he’d been able to do since— Dorian couldn’t remember a time he hadn’t been able to do such a thing. He had vague memories of his life before his magic had manifested, mostly sense memories, though.

His ability to control fire was almost as ingrained, as natural, as breathing. Except, clearly not.

And for the first time since the night he’d had his jaw broken and been turned into nothing more than a receptacle for his jailers’ cocks, Dorian cried in front of someone else. He didn’t mean to, anymore than he’d meant to burn Madame de Fer’s entire hearth. It was simply as if the last shred of hope he’d been holding to that he could recover, that he could live again, snapped. And so did he.

It wasn’t loud or dramatic or any of the things he’d have expected of himself as a younger man. He wouldn’t have even known he was crying if not for the salt on his lips. Madame de Fer said, “Altus Pavus, that was simply a first try, this was to be expected.”

Only Dorian _hadn’t_ expected it, even if everyone else seemingly had. Expected that Dorian would fail. Be useless. He found the nearest piece of parchment and wrote so carelessly the quill speared straight through it, but still managed to write out, “Magebane. Now.”

Madame de Fer took one look at it and said, “No.”

Dorian set her fucking rug on fire.

* * *

Bull was discussing a possible mission with Briarill when Cullen interrupted to say, “Bull, you’d perhaps best come rescue your mage if you don’t want having saved him from certain death to have been in vain.”

Despite that, Cullen didn’t actually seem panicked, so instead of asking for a direction and rushing off, Bull asked, “What happened?”

“He set Vivienne’s rug on fire.”

“Shit,” Briarill commented, rather succinctly, Bull thought.

“Ah,” Bull said. 

Cullen waved a hand. “It was…a bit provoked, and I honestly think she expected something of the sort. Everyone’s alive, Vivienne has wanted a new rug for months and now has an excuse to go find one, all’s well except that Dorian is unnerved by his own lack of control. He’s under a Smite at the moment, since that seemed to easiest way to keep him from burning us all to death accidentally, so nobody’s in any peril except possibly him.”

“Is he still with Ma’am?” Because if so, Bull was going to have to respectfully disagree with Cullen’s assessment of the situation.

“No, according to Cole, who came to find me—the emotive waves must have been significant—he’s barricaded himself into one of the unoccupied Eastern towers. I suspect he’s just trying to limit damage to everyone. I asked Cassandra to keep an eye out on the area until I could find you and send you in.”

“And we think I’m the best option because?”

Briarill and Cullen both looked at him like he’d lost something a lot more important than one eye. After a moment, Briarill said, “Because a third of the tension in his body leaves when you’re around.”

This was true, and Bull had taken note, however, “Pretty sure that’s a reflexive reaction to having been around me slightly longer than the rest of you. Should have seen his face the first time he saw me. If he’d been capable of shitting himself, given how little he had in his system, he would have managed. I’m his worst nightmare, only larger.”

Cullen murmured something off to the side that Bull clearly was not meant to catch. Briarill said, “My consort says you’re dumb as a nug, only larger.”

Bull blinked. “I’ll infer from that comment you disagree with my read of the situation.”

“Get out of my office.”

“It’s a sitting room,” Bull told Briarill. He also got out. And moved hastily toward the Eastern tower.

* * *

Dorian’s fingers were turning blue. It was the first thing Bull noticed, perhaps because Dorian had wrapped himself into such a tiny ball, his fingers were the most apparent element of his skin. Even Bull, who was fairly immune to southern temperatures, despite having been raised in the north, was consciously aware it was chilly.

Bull said, “Koslun’s balls, big guy,” and dropped to a crouch in front of Dorian, but not so close as to cause alarm.

Dorian looked up at that, his teeth chattering audibly. He glared, and it would have been fierce except for how he looked like parts of him were about to break off. Bull didn’t react. “Let me buy you a drink, yeah? Something hot.”

Dorian glanced away and shook his head. He reached out a finger and drew the words “safer here,” in the dust. 

“Oh.” Bull pulled out the vial of magebane Cullen had handed him as he’d left. “That should fix your security concerns.”

Dorian took the vial and downed it, not even flinching at the taste. Bull nodded. “Great. So. Toddy?”

Dorian tried to get to his feet, but the cold had set in and Bull saw the moment where one of the abused points in Dorian’s body simply locked up. There was nothing for it but to reach out and stabilize him, saying, “Sorry, just—”

Only, instead of flinching away, Dorian practically fell into him, his breath too quick, hitching at the ends. Bull said, “All right, I’ve got you.”

Dorian’s fingers, ice-cold, dug into the straps of Bull’s harness, as though holding on for dear life. Bull said, “Been a while since someone touched you in a way that was neither painful nor clinical, eh?”

It was hard to distinguish Dorian’s small nod from his shivering, but Bull managed. He soothed a hand up and down Dorian’s back. “Let’s go back to your room, okay? You can put on some dry clothes while I grab us the drinks, and we can do this without you freezing to death.”

Dorian didn’t move.

“C’mon, work with me. Briarill and Cullen are depending on me. You really want to abandon me to their mercy if I let you become an ice sculpture? Those are nice and all, but don’t really belong in a fortress, if you know what I mean.”

The commentary got a small whuff out of Dorian, warm against Bull’s chest. Softly, and aware of how much he was asking, Bull said, “Trust me.”

Dorian stepped back a tiny bit without releasing his grip on the harness. Bull smiled down at him, taking that as an affirmative.

* * *

His room wasn’t _warm_ , precisely. Nothing here, amongst the Frostback Mountains, was. But between the toddy Bull had gotten them both from the tavern, the fire he’d started, and the three down comforters he’d purloined from somewhere to wrap around Dorian, it was closer than Dorian had felt in some time. It seemed weird, that a Qun roughly five times fiercer looking than any Dorian had encountered, made him feel safe, comforted, even. And yet, that appeared to be the case.

Bull had also placed writing materials within the nest of blankets. When his hands had finally stopped shaking from the cold, Dorian wrote, “Have I been sentenced to death by Madame de Fer?”

Taking the note, Bull laughed. “Nah, Cullen says she was in the market for a new rug anyway.”

Dorian side-eyed him. Bull nodded, as if to acknowledge that his doubt was legitimate. “Truly, I think we might have expected some furniture-related casualties in this endeavor.”

And, well, being rational—not Dorian’s favorite past-time just then—he could see how that was probably reasonable. He rubbed at his face. Being warm was a blessing, but the shift in temperature was causing something of a headache. The fact that he noticed meant it was surpassing the other aches, which meant it might become a problem. He took another sip of his drink, hoping it would settle whatever the issue was.

He took the parchment back and wrote, “Thank you.”

Bull shook his head. “Nah. Friends help each other.”

Dorian bit the inside of his lip. Mae and Felix had told him the same, not in so many words, at times. It had always scared Dorian, though, that he wouldn’t be able to help enough when the time came to cover his debts to them. It was more frightening with this man, since Dorian was entirely certain that was the case. Even so much as saving his life would not be a true trade. Bull had saved him from an enduring hell. 

Bull spoke into the silence. “Krem was bad with the concept at first, too. You ‘Vints…you’ve notions that are considerably different than most others.” It wasn’t said with contempt, more a sort of resignation. “Sometimes I worry he thinks he still owes me an eye.”

Dorian startled at that. He wasn’t sure why it should surprise him. Bull had given up his _people_ for Dorian. And yet the starkness of the sacrifice was hard to process.

Bull met Dorian’s gaze. “The thing is, he doesn’t owe me anything. Neither of you do. My choices are mine.”

Dorian scribbled, “It’s not that simple. Even an oxman must see that.”

Bull read and laughed at the derogatory term, as intended. He said, “Not this oxman.”

“Bull.”

Both of them stilled, Dorian probably more shocked at the word actually issuing from his mouth than Bull was. It came out as a two-syllabled croak, barely recognizable as a word at all. Dorian looked down at his hands, wrapped around his drink, as though they’d been the part of his body to affect the sound. 

Bull grinned and repeated, “Nope, not this oxman.”

* * *

He could still speak. Rationally, Dorian had presumed this was the case, seeing as how he had chosen to stop speaking, not had his tongue cut out or anything. But emotionally, he’d begun to doubt it. He smiled cautiously and tried again. “D-don’t tell?”

Bull looked confused for a half a second and then shook his head. “Nope, our secret. You get to talk to others when you’re ready. Leliana will probably know somehow, though. I’m fairly certain she reads minds.”

Dorian nodded. He wasn’t certain of his standing with the spymaster, for all that she’d taken his side initially. He suspected everything was contingent on his ability to support the Inquisition’s goals, and possibly whether Mae could be pressed upon to donate. Dorian wasn’t going to ask Mae for anything more than he already had, though, so if that was the price of staying, well. He’d figure something out. 

“Where’d you go?” Bull asked.

Dorian shook himself a bit and smiled apologetically. He forced himself to say, “Borrowing trouble,” just for the practice of using words.

“What kind of food do you like?”

Dorian blinked. “Pardon?”

“Well, now you’re speaking and all, seems an opportune moment to ask some questions.”

“Ah.” Dorian supposed he could see the sense in that. “I am…mostly acquainted with Tevinter-based cuisines.”

“Sure. Believe it or not, I’ve spent some time in your part of the world.”

“Oh.”

Bull grinned. “You’re wondering how I fit in.”

Without thinking, Dorian said, “I’m wondering how many Tevinter nobles you cuckolded whose wives read the same trashy books I read for much of my adolescence and wanted to see if the rather florid description of Qunari equipment was even half-truth.”

There was a stillness, then, perhaps because of how many words Dorian had used, or maybe due his bluntness. Bull’s smile went a little sharper. “Enough.”

Dorian sipped at the last of his drink. “I apologize, that was—”

“Funny. It was funny and observant and accurate. I just got caught on the part where you read those books, and…and maybe had those fantasies.”

Dorian inclined his head. “I suppose I rather got what was coming to me, in that sense.”

“No. Dorian. _No._ ” 

Dorian shrank away from the vehemence in Bull. He knew it wasn’t aimed at him, precisely, but couldn’t help the instinctive reaction. Bull backed away, putting his hands up. More softly, he said, “You think any of those noblewomen would have deserved what happened to you?”

“Their desires are rather more natural, are they not?” Dorian raised an eyebrow.

“They are not,” Bull said, as though it were a fact.

Dorian laughed, mostly to avoid crying. He’d had enough of the latter for just now. “I told myself that. Told myself and told myself. Flouted my father’s power. And you know where it landed me. I have reason to question the stalwartness of your certainty.”

“I know. But that’s because you’ve been hurt. Now it’s time to start healing.”

“I’m not even certain I’m ready to talk to anyone who isn’t you,” Dorian pointed out.

“I don’t see anyone setting down a timeframe.”

Dorian sneered, he couldn’t help it. “And your Inquisitor, she’ll just keep me around as deadweight?”

“You wouldn’t be the first refugee we’ve taken in. Sure as shit won’t be the last. And nobody’s calling you deadweight but yourself.”

“There is a price to aid, where I come from.”

“Yep. Where you come from is kind of shit, sometimes.”

Dorian was certain he should be offended by that. In the moment, he couldn’t feel anything but exhausted agreement.

* * *

Dorian woke up the next morning already feeling the bite in the air. The blankets that had mysteriously amassed on his bed—he was fairly certain they could be put down to a certain Tal-Vashoth, adding to a debt he already could not possibly repay—kept him warm in sleep, but that was basically the only time he could claim that state of being. 

There were other ways of getting warm, though. His magic was out, at the moment, and with it much of his utility. Before his captivity, however, he’d been gifted at hand-to-hand, at least among his peers. He doubted he still had much of the dexterity, and wasn’t even sure the muscle memory would still be there. It was a place to start, nonetheless; an act he had some level of control over. And bound to warm him up.

He sought out the corner of the training yard where he’d clocked the Chargers in his initial mapping of the complex, or as much of it as he’d been allowed into. Rocky was the first to catch site of him. He waved and said, “Mornin’, Dorian.”

Dorian waved back. He noticed Krem had stopped stretching and was looking over at him, so he waved at Krem, too. Krem tilted his head. “Just come to say hi?”

Dorian shook his head. It would be easiest to just _say_ what he had come for, but unlike the night before, safe in the confines of his room, it felt overwhelming to even try. Instead he positioned himself in one of the first self-defense stances someone from Tevinter would have been taught, regardless of status.

Krem blinked. “You want to spar?”

“Not a fucking chance,” Stitches interjected. “Dorian, you haven’t got the muscle mass or weight for it, yet. Stretching, strength building exercises, katas, anything that helps to build you back up is fine. But if I find you so much as shadowboxing, I’m gonna kick your ass myself.”

It was so frustratingly _reasonable_ of Stitches, Dorian couldn’t even be mad. Irritated, sure. He sighed and nodded. It wouldn’t hurt to re-familiarize his body with the basic mechanics of self-defense, and Stitches was definitely correct that he needed to regain his endurance. 

He lost track of how long he alternated stances with press-ups, jogs around the fighting grounds, and ab-rotators. Probably not even that long, but he was sweating and almost nauseated from the effort when Bull said, “Hey there, big guy.”

Dorian blinked—he hadn’t even noticed the other man arriving. And Bull was kind of hard to miss. Bull grinned. “You stay out here much longer, you’re gonna miss breakfast.”

Dorian wasn’t hungry, due to the expenditure of effort. Just the same, he knew he needed to eat. He went through a few stretches to loosen up muscles that hadn’t been worked in far too long, and followed Bull into the mess. Bull asked, “Mint tea?”

Dorian glanced at him appreciatively, since that sounded like the perfect way to settle his stomach and allow him to get some food down. Bull obtained it for him, along with two pieces of toast and a single egg. Dorian put a hand to his chest in a gesture of thanks.

“Cullen said to tell you to clean up before coming to Ma’am’s. He says she’s not upset with you, but she will be if you show up all smelly, which I can vouch for.”

Dorian had better manners than to do so anyway, which he did his best to get across to Bull by way of a haughty look. Bull laughed. “Yeah, thought so.”

Dorian smiled down into his tea. Between the workout and the drink, he was rather warm at the moment. He closed his eyes to savor the feeling.

* * *

This time, Dorian was expecting the way his magic seemed to want to escape from his very pores. He spent longer working on channeling it in the fashion that had been second nature before. It seemed knowing the problem was something of a help, since he eventually managed to light the fire without harming anything else.

Madame de Fer looked at the flames and said, “Well then. You really are something, aren’t you, Dorian Pavus?”

Dorian looked into the fireplace again, to see what it was he was missing. He frowned.

“I was expecting it to take several more tries,” she told him. “Several more weeks, for that matter. For almost anyone in your situation it would, you realize?”

Dorian went to the writing table and penned the single word, “Discipline.”

She took the note. “No, well. Yes. You must have been formidably trained in it, or had reason to instill it in yourself. Either way, yes, but there’s raw power in that equation.”

The Commander spoke up, “It’s easy to believe, when you’ve been out of control of yourself for so long, that you’ve lost the power you once had. Some do. But you didn’t. You stored it in a place they couldn’t get to it.”

Dorian blinked at the assertion; at the knowing way the other man spoke of loss of control.

Madame de Fer said, “It’s impressive. And I do not find much to be so.”

Dorian inclined his head. He wanted the words to feel like a given, like his due. Rather, they felt like a lifeline. He was still mulling it over when the room went cold. She’d doused the flames. When he glanced at her, she said, “Again.”

* * *

Dorian established a routine. There was working out with the Chargers—sooner or later Stitches _had_ to let him spar—taking breakfast with Bull, spending the morning with Madame de Fer and the Commander, and using the afternoon to work on his staff, which he had most of the elements for at this point. For dinner, unless it was an evening when Lavellan requested he dine with her, he would often take a few things and head back to his room. Bull ate at the tavern most nights, whereas Dorian had no coin and no way of acquiring any, so joining there wasn’t possible. Meanwhile, it had become abundantly clear that when not near someone who was accepted as a part of the inner circle or the Chargers, his presence was unwelcome.

It was a decent routine. His room was as warm as anywhere in the keep was, he had some interactions with others, and it cut down on unfortunate incidences. He was for the most part safe, his weight was returning and with it, the ability to build muscle mass. Compared to much of his life, and certainly the last two years, this was paradise.

Dorian reminded himself of this fact constantly. Mostly in the dead of night, when he woke himself screaming and couldn’t get warm. Now that his body was recovering, his mind had room to make the sharp splinters of its fractured state known. In the dark it was only the cold that reminded Dorian he was safe, and the cold was perhaps somewhat reassuring, but it soaked into his bones and caused them to ache in all the places where breaks had been given only the most superficial of treatment. It was not kind.

He would have fiercely denied that he needed kindness, of course. To do anything else would have been sheer folly, and Dorian was desperate, not stupid. With the disturbed sleep, though, and the work he was putting into rebuilding his fighting and magic skills, plus the caution necessary to avoid being caught out alone by groups of Templars, it was getting harder to keep up his aura of unassailability. He’d done it for all those years in the Circles, and with his family, once the reality of things had become clear. He’d even done it while the Qunari had been taking him apart, piece by piece, until all that was left was the corner of his mind he’d hidden from everything and everyone.

All he had to do was keep doing it. He’d been tired and in pain and isolated before. There was no reason to believe he couldn’t keep on as he’d always managed before. No reason at all.

* * *

“I don’t think Dorian is sleeping.”

Stitches looked at Bull like he was one boot short of a full pair. “What would make you think that? The fact that the bruises around his eyes are larger than his actual face, or something else?”

“If I’d wanted sass, I’d’ve gone to Krem about this.”

Stitches just _looked_ at him. Bull sighed. “I was thinking about maybe taking him on a couple of jobs.”

Stitches asked, “To do what, exactly?”

“Well, I can’t keep just sending out the satellite groups, and he clearly needs some time away from here and some way to earn coin, and I…I haven’t exactly come up with a plan yet—”

“By which you mean, not at all.”

“—but we get paid for killing things, so, you know, he could help.”

“Bull.” Stitches rubbed his face. “He needs at least another fifteen pounds before he’s at a vaguely healthy weight. I haven’t even allowed him to spar in training yet. He’s still taking magebane at night to curb any errant magic. He hasn’t spoken yet, and so has no way of communicating with us.”

“Grim—”

“Grim has developed ways over the years. We all have, with him. We don’t have that with Dorian.”

And Dorian, Bull knew, wasn’t ready to talk for the most part. He hadn’t even spoken to Bull since that day in his rooms. Bull released a long breath. “I don’t know how to help him. And he clearly needs help.”

“Killing isn’t the only thing the Inquisition needs. He’s literate. See if Josephine needs some help, or if she has some thoughts on how to give him a job that he’s equipped for at this time.”

Bull nodded. “Yeah, all right. I still think he needs to get out of here for a bit.”

“What he needs is to feel secure here.”

“Bigger task,” Bull said, because he already knew that, but he wasn’t sure where to start. Cullen was being responsible about curbing the worst of the behavior from the Templars and anything he saw. It wasn’t just the Templars, though, and Cullen was only one man. 

“You’re a big guy,” Stitches said.

Bull laughed. “More helpful in less ephemeral battles.”

“You cut ties with your people to give him his freedom. And you’re not one to leave a job half done.”

Bull tilted his head. “And?”

“And what?”

“And what was the part that you just cut yourself off from saying?”

Stitches opened his mouth, then shut it. After a moment he said, “And Krem’s known you a good while now and he says he’s never seen you watch anyone the way you watch Dorian.”

“Krem is a closet romantic.”

“I never uttered the word romance,” Stitches shot back.

Bull was losing his touch.

* * *

Dorian was playing chess with the Commander when Josephine sat down at their table and asked, “Mind if I watch a round?”

The Commander asked, “Briarill need something?”

“No, but I could use some aid.”

Dorian used the distraction to consider if he could get away with moving two of his pieces. He chanced it. The Commander asked, “How may I be of service?”

“Ah, well, you see, I was hoping Ser Pavus could help me, as it were.”

Dorian’s hand jerked, removing half the pieces from the board. He made an apologetic face at the Commander, who waved his hand. “Why don’t you go talk inside? You look frozen.”

Dorian took a moment and noticed the strain in the Commander’s eyes, the kind he got when one of his headaches was coming on. Dorian knew he wasn’t supposed to have noticed, but if there was one thing he’d learned it was what pain looked like, on himself and others. He half-smiled and reached out to knock over the Commander’s queen.

The Commander shooed him off. “Go.”

Dorian followed Josephine back to her office. It didn’t pass his notice that she kept the door open. It was a kindness, since Dorian still didn’t handle being closed in rooms with others well. Bull being the exception, which was something Dorian chose not to mull over. He had enough problems.

She asked, “Tea?” and he nodded. She bustled about a bit, pouring from a rather ornate kettle into a set of boldly patterned tea cups. From the smell, it was something Navarran, he thought, citrusy and light. She dropped a dab of honey in hers and then raised an eyebrow at him. He nodded again. 

She added the honey and pushed the cup toward him, complete with a stirring spoon and saucer. He stirred the honey in and set the spoon on the saucer, wrapping his hands around the cup in a somewhat uncouth manner, but the heat of it was too enticing to resist.

Josephine said, “You really do seem to wilt in the chill.”

Dorian took a sip of the tea even as she placed a quill and some parchment in front of him. He wrote, “ Northerner blood.”

“Yes. It just…seems to affect you more than Krem.”

Dorian looked down at his tea. She said, “I don’t mean anything by it. It was more me thinking aloud, perhaps we could find you better clothing.”

He chose not to respond to that, either. She had helped him be able to stay here, and he appreciated that, but he certainly didn’t trust her enough to show her his belly. 

She sighed. “I’m doing this wrong, which is unlike me. As an altus, you dealt with Tevene politics, yes?”

He inclined his head. Not well enough to keep him out of a warzone he was too young to be placed in, still, the basic assertion wasn’t incorrect. She said, “I could use another pair of letter-writing hands. I can tell you the basics of what needs to be said, but we need more allies and supplies if our cause is to succeed, and I am only one person. Leliana does what she can when not seeing to her other duties. You would be paid, of course, and we could discuss the shape of your duties, particularly so you have time to train with Vivienne and Cullen. If you would be willing, though—”

Dorian pushed the parchment with the statement, “Tell me what you need,” toward her breaking off the request.

She smiled then, and it was perhaps a bit more relief than pure joy, but pretty all the same, and kind. Dorian found himself smiling back, feeling just a little more like himself than he had the moment before.

Josephine asked, “Are you all right to start now?”

Dorian nodded. She pulled out more sheaves of parchment.

* * *

For the first few weeks of his new duties, Dorian hoarded the salary he was granted. It wasn’t much, but as they weren’t charging him rent, it was certainly enough that he could start thinking about what he could use it for. Certainly, he’d like some robes that actually fit him, and were heavier than the clothing they’d managed to scrape together. He wanted something saved for materials he still needed for his staff. And then maybe there’d be enough for a meal or two a week at the tavern. Savings for an emergency situation would have to wait, which didn’t sit well with him despite being unavoidable.

Maybe once his control was back up to snuff, he could convince Bull to send him on some of the jobs the Chargers who weren’t in his main crew went on. They didn’t have a mage and surely one would be useful. It seemed clear that the mercenaries made rather good coin on their side jaunts for pay. He had a ways to go, however. He was still taking minute amounts of the magebane at night, his staff was constructed but not assembled, and Stitches had _just_ granted him leave to spar.

For now, he’d be glad of having a job and a roof and nobody harming him.

And maybe…maybe he could be young and stupid for just one night and go buy himself a drink or two, sit with the Chargers and laugh and feel unafraid for a few hours. Then he could worry about new clothes and the finishing touches for the staff and all of the practicalities that needed worrying over. Just one night.

* * *

Dorian came out to the Rest about a week after he’d begun spending the afternoon holed up with either Josie or Leliana. He scurried to the bar, ordered, and high-tailed it over to the Charger’s table. It was probably mostly just the nerves of being in another new place, but Bull didn’t miss the dirty looks several of the Templars gave him, not to mention the elves. He bit back a sigh. Dorian needed his voice back. His voice _and_ the full range of his magic, if he was to overcome some of the prejudices and feel even slightly at ease.

He packed himself in the tight space between Stitches and the wall, clung to his mug like it was the only thing between him and annihilation, and listened to the story Rocky was busy mostly-concocting. Bull, for his part, traded places with Skinner, not entirely voluntarily on her part, so as to be across from Dorian. Dorian lifted his cup toward Bull with a small smile.

Bull, in turn, clinked his tankard against the cup, careful not to hit so hard as to spill. He grinned at Dorian and took a swig. Dorian also took a pull and then blinked down at the cup, his eyes tearing up. Bull bit back a sigh and reached out, pulling the cup toward him and taking a sniff. It was the shit Bull swore was paint varnish that Cabot gave patrons when asked for whatever the house pour was if he took a disliking to them. Sure enough, there was a scrap of parchment crumpled next to Dorian’s hand that had the words, “house” and “please” scribbled where Bull could see them. 

Dorian was undoubtedly watching his coin, but that was a good way to go blind. Most patrons had enough support to take it as a bit of hazing and laugh it off before asking for something else. Dorian’s fingers were going white clutching the cup. 

Bull got up and went to the bar, stared Cabot down, and when the man brought him a pour of Fereldan ale, put down a coin but no tip. He’d get the message. Bull sat back down and slid the cup over to Dorian.

Dorian took another pointed swallow of his own drink, all-but-choked, and breathed through his nose until the worst of it had passed. Bull was uncomfortably aware the Chargers were carrying on more noisily than usual as if to cover what was happening, and that the Templars in the place were laughing at Dorian. And if he knew it, Dorian knew it, too.

Bull started another story, looking away from Dorian, something from the early days of learning to understand Grim, a comedy of errors to distract. In his periphery, though, he was aware of Dorian grimly pushing his way through his own drink, his captivity-paled olive-sheen skin going a rather sicker shade of green. 

Halfway through the story, Dorian pushed himself to his feet, clapped Rocky on the shoulder, smiled politely at the rest of the Chargers and made his way to the door with as much dignity as Bull had ever seen anybody wear, up to and including Ma’am. Bull finished the story despite his desire to just excuse himself, but once he was done, he let Dalish take attention off of him and all-but scampered out of the tavern.

He found Dorian puking on the side of stables that were halfway back to his room. “Shit, shoulda brought water.”

When he could, Dorian took a few breaths and said softly, “I shall acquire some before I return to my room.” He straightened up and Bull watched the way he waited a moment to see if his knees would buckle under him. He tilted his head. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

That poison had to hurt worse coming back up than it did going down, which was saying something. Bull noticed the shake of Dorian’s hands, but kept his gaze on Dorian’s face. “I would. Mind.”

Dorian squared his jaw. “Well. As we are both aware, I am hardly in a position to stop you doing whatever it is you desire, and—”

“You need a friend right now.”

Dorian’s eyes went a bit wide at this assertion.

“And I can see how, in your shoes, needing anything feels…probably horrifying, but you do, and I’m here. So let’s get you some water, and see maybe about a hot bath and a fresh set of clothes and then, if you seem all right, I’ll leave you to get some rest.”

Dorian’s gaze focused on a point just behind Bull’s right shoulder. “I haven’t got a fresh set of clothes. I’ll launder what I have this evening. I had planned on doing so tomorrow in any case.”

He was going to fall down if they didn’t get moving soon, Bull could see as much. “We’ll problem solve that one as we go. One thing at a time, big guy.”

* * *

“This—this is not the direction of my room,” Dorian said, relieved he could find it in himself to speak. 

“No, I’m gonna sweet talk the girls at the Rest into letting us use a bath.”

Dorian almost turned right around. He was _not_ going back into the tavern tonight or ever again, if he could help it. But Bull must have caught a sign of hesitation, because he settled a hand on Dorian’s lower back and guided him, saying, “We’re going into the kitchen. Just you, me, and the ladies who make and serve the food. Promise.”

Dorian hesitated for a moment, then allowed Bull to steer him there. The warmth of the kitchen soaked into his muscles. Bull was chatting up one of the women. Dorian paid attention only to the extent that he could never entirely let go of doing threat assessments anymore, drinking slowly at the mug of water he’d been handed. Bull said, “C’mon,” and led him into what appeared to be a storage closet off the kitchen, still warm, if not quite so much as the kitchen proper.

He left Dorian there, only to return shortly thereafter with a hip bath. He said, “The girls are heating the water. I’m going to see about getting you something clean to change into.”

One of the women came and began pouring water into the tub. Dorian smiled and wished he could find his voice to thank her. She smiled back, so he thought maybe some of his thoughts had gotten across. Bull returned just as the bath was reaching capacity. He said, “Stitches had some clothes you could borrow.”

Dorian nodded. The woman left, Bull thanking her. When the door had shut behind her, he asked, “Want me to stand guard at the door?”

“I…yes, that would be kind of you.”

Between the adrenaline crash of having worked himself up to coming out to the tavern, the aftereffects of being sick, and the exhaustion that was just part of his existence right now, it took a bit for Dorian to undress and get himself in the bath. The heat of the water helped him unwind, and after a few minutes, it was easier to reach for the soap left on the rim of the tub, scrub at the residue of sweat from the sickness. 

Once he felt clean, he stepped from the bath and dried off with the towel Bull had brought with the clothing, then dressed. He tapped on the door and Bull peeked in. “Better?”

Dorian gave him a small smile. Bull said, “Lemme accompany you back to your room.”

Dorian knew he should refuse, make his way back on his own, readjust to the solitude that defined so much of his world here. Instead he said, “Please.”

Bull was mostly quiet on the way back. He softly told a story about Dalish and her “bow”. When they reached Dorian’s room, he slipped inside and went directly to the fireplace, starting a fire. Dorian said, “I am capable of doing that myself, you realize.”

“Betting you’re capable of doing a lot of stuff for yourself you shouldn’t necessarily have to.”

“Bull—”

“That shouldn’t have happened tonight.”

Dorian found himself smiling ruefully. “Not everyone is so willing to reserve judgement as you are.”

“You went in, you paid your coin, you didn’t cause trouble. Should be all that matters.”

Dorian went to stand beside him. “Yes, well.”

“You’ve had more than your fair share of folks being terrible to you.”

“It has occurred to me, in the time I’ve had to think about how Tevinter functions and the choices the Imperium has made, that perhaps the wariness isn’t entirely undue. And as far as the Templars go,” Dorian spread his hands. “I suppose I don’t like them much, either, come to it.”

Bull laughed. “They’re a type, for sure.”

The fire was going. Dorian reached his hands out to it. “You’ve, ah, done your duty as a friend by me, I’m sure.”

Without looking at him, Bull asked, “Want me to leave?”

Dorian closed his eyes. He couldn’t afford this, not when it was just kindness. He couldn’t give in and then be left with even less than he had now. That was plain foolishness.

“Dorian?” Bull asked into a silence that had stretched too long.

Dorian shook his head, tears of sheer frustration at himself threatening, but safely locked behind his lids.

* * *

Bull took the chance to watch Dorian while he had his eyes closed. Compared to when Bull had first laid eyes on him, he was looking well. That was entirely relative, though. He was still too lean, startled by nearly everything, and terrified by mere decency. Softly, Bull said, “Right.”

Dorian opened his eyes, clearly through sheer force of will. 

Bull canted his head. “You seem cold.”

“We are in the Frostback Mountains. The consequence of freezing weather is quite literally in the name. And no matter _how_ thick that hide of yours is, it is northern, just as mine is. You’re aware of the climes to which I’m accustomed.”

Bull smiled. “You just need some meat on you.”

Dorian made an inelegant snorting noise which seemed to surprise even him. He cocked an eyebrow and said, “Yes, I’m certain that will solve everything.”

“Short of that, ‘course, there’s always sharing body heat.” Bull bit back a wince the moment it came out of his mouth. He’d worked so hard not to use his normal tactics on Dorian, since it was unclear how they’d read on someone recovering from the level of assault Dorian had endured.

Dorian’s body language flashed to high alert. Bull said, “Kos—shit. I didn’t mean—”

“I know.” The words came out shaky, but the tone was certain. Dorian rubbed a hand over his face. “The—the last time when you found me and…and ascertained that it had been some time since touch had been safe—” Dorian’s jaw tightened and he stared into the flames. 

Bull said, “We could do that again. Just that.”

So quietly Bull had to strain to hear, Dorian said, “I’m tired.”

Bull thought for a moment and asked, “If I gave you my word you’d be safe, would you believe me?”

Bull was surprised to find the answer mattered to him. As a general rule, he was contented knowing that _he_ knew his word was good.

Dorian looked at him, blinking. “You broke with your people to save my life. Yes, I would believe you.”

“Then let me snuggle with you. Keep you warm for the night.”

“Snuggle?” Dorian’s mouth formed a moue of bemusement. 

“Surely you know the meaning of the word?”

“I—ah. The definition, yes, I. I know what it means.”

Bull swallowed and kept to himself every question he wanted to ask about who exactly had raised Dorian. Instead, he asked, “Well?”

“It seems to me that would be…warm.” Dorian said, meeting Bull’s gaze.

“That a yes?” Bull wasn’t taking any chances, here. 

With a sharp nod, Dorian said, “Y-yes.”

Bull nodded in turn and toed off his boots, unbuckling and laying his harness with them. He lowered himself into Dorian’s bed and settled himself on his back. Then he waited. Eventually, he heard Dorian rustling around the room, and after a short bit, tentatively placing himself along Bull’s right side. That was thoughtful. Telegraphing every movement, Bull drew him in closer, and then wrapped him in a few of the blankets heaping the bed. 

Dorian mumbled, “This really is very warm.”

Bull smiled up at the ceiling and kept quiet.

* * *

Dorian woke up warm and rested in a way he barely remembered. It was almost disconcerting, except he couldn’t manage anything beyond simple contentedness. Beneath him, Bull was snoring loudly, something he thought ought to bother him. It was calming, the awareness of not being alone, of…of having a friend, maybe, or at the very least, someone who was intent on not harming him.

After a moment, the snoring quieted, and Bull asked, “Alright there, Dorian?”

Reluctantly, Dorian drew away, sitting and wrapping his arms around his bent legs. “Quite well. Thank you for—for keeping me warm.”

Bull shifted to his side, propping his cheek on one arm. “Seems the least you deserve, not to be cold.”

“Evidently I have a somewhat delicate constitution.”

Bull laughed. “Sure.”

“It—it’s that it seems as if it should not bother me. Not in comparison with where I have been.”

Bull made an indelicate noise. “You were tortured and raped and stripped of your dignity for two years, and so you think you don’t get to feel bad when anything less than that happens?”

Dorian could grant it sounded stupid when laid out like that. “It gets into my bones. The cold. Like they did. It—I just want to have a few moments of feeling like I’ve actually made it out. Is all.”

“Doesn’t seem like such a big thing to ask.”

Dorian did his best to tamp down on a bitter smile. “Well, seeming and being. Two entirely different things.”

“Sure. But I think in this instance, it might just be a question of coming up with a plan, and applying pressure in the right places.”

Dorian, who once could have danced around this issue, teased it out until he had found a solution, instead said, “I have nothing to barter. Nothing of worth to give. To you, to them. And I have been unable to settle the situation on my end.” He forced a shrug. “Either I will recover full control over my powers and have something to offer, something to defend myself with, or I will survive.”

Quietly, Bull asked, “Why is it that you don’t believe your companionship is enough?”

“You must be joking. Even my parents didn’t like me all that much. As can be observed.” Dorian paused. “Unless you were referring to a more carnal type of companionship, in which case—”

“Stop.”

Dorian stopped, more grateful for the out than he could properly express. Bull said, “I like you. You’re a little mean, sure, but only in the ways required to have survived this long. I don’t see whatever you were taught to see when you look in the mirror. I see a guy who made it through two years of hell and retained his sanity and his bite. I see someone who makes me laugh. And I’m pretty sure I see enough leashed power to level this damn fort. Which is both admirable and terrifying from where I’m standing.”

Dorian rocked a little back and forth. After a bit he offered, “You make me laugh, too.”

Bull smiled. “So let’s make each other laugh. And get you some space to breathe.”

“Have any actual ideas on how to do that?”

“Not yet. But let’s go get some breakfast. I always think better on a full stomach.”

Dorian laughed. “That does not surprise me.”

* * *

Bull took the route that would allow him to swing by the practice pens and make meaningful eye contact with Krem, who would in turn gather up the boys for a war council. When Dorian and he made it to the main hall, he sat down across from Cullen and Briarill, which forced Dorian to either peel off, or stay and have a meal with them.

He could tell Dorian considered the former for a moment before seating himself. Briarill had told him that despite their meals together, Dorian remained skittish in her presence. 

Bull grabbed the hot water kettle and set to making tea for Dorian while greeting the others at the table. Varric was down a bit, sitting across from Cassandra and Josephine. They all acknowledged the greeting before going back to their conversation. 

To his surprise, before he could even grease the wheels, Briarill said, “Josie tells me you’ve been invaluable to the letter writing campaign, Dorian. You have my thanks. It—politics has never been one of my strengths.”

Dorian stared for a moment, and then smiled and nodded in an approximation of “you’re welcome.”

Cullen, who looked like he’d had one of his rough nights, said, “Mine either, but I’m gathering from the whispers that are reaching my ears that I might need to be a bit more aggressive about how I expect you to be treated, Dorian, unless I’m mistaken?”

Dorian accepted the tea Bull held out to him with a nod of appreciation and shrugged at Cullen, as if to say, “like that’s gonna help,” except probably more fancy. Dorian still spoke like an altus, even if he didn’t actually speak. Or throw his weight around like one.

“I think we might need a more strategic approach,” Bull said, considering the other offerings at the table and putting together a plate.

“Isn’t your idea of strategy to have a bigger axe than the other party?” Briarill asked with a smile.

“That one doesn’t seem to be working in this instance,” Bull told her. Dorian smiled down at his mug.

Briarill opened her mouth, possibly just to poke more fun at him, when Krem slid into the seat beside her, Grim taking the one next to Cullen, Stitches settling on Dorian’s other side, and Rocky on Bull’s. Krem grabbed the coffee carafe and poured himself a mug the size of his head before saying, “You called, Chief?”

“His stick isn’t big enough,” Briarill said with an impressively straight face. 

Dorian choked on his tea. Briarill laughed so hard at that she snorted. Cullen was quite clearly doing his best _not_ to laugh. Unshockingly, Bull’s boys had no such compunction. Bull laughed a bit himself, waited for the others to taper off and said, looking at Cullen, “I suspect, when Dorian has control of his magic back, he’ll be able to hold his own?”

Cullen nodded. “If Vivienne is correct, and my instincts tell me she is, more than just hold.”

“Do we have a timeline on that?”

Cullen looked over at Dorian, who made a face and shook his head. Cullen hazarded, “At least a month. His power’s just fine, but his control is still hit and miss, and given the level of connection he appears to have, the difference could be, uh. Worrying.”

Bull read the _catastrophic_ that Cullen didn’t want to say in front of either him or Dorian, although likely for different reasons. Rocky meanwhile, looked at Dorian and asked, “Play Wicked Grace, kid?”

Dorian, who’d finally made a plate for himself and was very methodically working his way through it, looked over at Rocky and made a “so-so” gesture. 

Rocky said, “Good enough. Varric hosts a game night at the tavern every week. You’re gonna show up.”

Dorian obviously had some opinions about that. Grim caught his gaze and calmly shook his head. Stitches gave voice to what he was trying to convey, “It won’t be like last night. We weren’t expecting you.”

Dorian poked at his food, frustration written in every line of his body. Krem said, “This isn’t a gift, Dorian. It’s human decency, which is something of a currency back ‘home’ but not here.”

Bull could tell Dorian didn’t believe it, that was achingly clear. But Dorian also seemed aware he didn’t have a number of good choices in this instance. He nodded sharply and used the gesture Grim had developed for saying thank you. Bull couldn’t have said when he’d picked it up. Grim smiled at him and gestured back, “you’re welcome.”

* * *

Dorian didn’t place any bets at the Wicked Grace game. He didn’t have those kinds of funds. He did manage to get a palatable drink—Ferelden, and annoyingly good despite that fact—and laugh at the various outlandish tales Varric came up with. Dalish sat by him most of the night, which had to have been at the insistence of Bull. She didn’t dislike him, he thought, so much as she didn’t know him and he was a ‘Vint. That seemed fair to him.

The next morning, Krem offered to spar with him for the first time. Dorian had observed Krem sparring with the other Chargers, including Bull. He was good. He used his compact build and speed to his advantage, and he didn’t hesitate to fight dirty. Before his captivity, Dorian had been better. Now, he was pretty sure he was about to get his ass handed to him.

Dorian nodded, and the two of them squared off. It hadn’t been very long since Stitches had allowed Dorian to begin sparring at all, and he’d mostly worked with Dalish since then. Dorian had the vague idea that Bull wanted her to learn from him how to best fight as a mage, but it worked out well, because she fought in ways he wasn’t accustomed to, ways that made him rethink his stances and moves.

After the first few feints, where they were clearly both testing each other, Krem made a move in earnest. Dorian could tell he was pulling his strength, which either made Krem an inherently fair person, or possibly just unwilling to piss Bull off. Dorian didn’t have his full strength back, so it allowed a more even match.

Time blurred as they caught and disengaged, twisted, pulled, kicked and turned. Dorian had forgotten the breathless joy of intended physical exertion, the sharp intensity of planning even as you were moving. 

He did, in the end, lose, going down and not willing to push himself back up, not when he wasn’t in any danger. Krem held out a hand and when Dorian took it, hauled him to standing with it. Krem considered him and said, “Not bad for a magister.”

Dorian rolled his eyes. Krem smiled, sardonic and real all at once, and Dorian returned the sentiment.

* * *

Cullen had done something about the Templars. Dorian wasn’t sure what, nor was he sure he wanted to know, but they were actively and intentionally staying out of his way. He thanked Cullen the only way he knew how, which was to do his best to progress so that the Commander didn’t have to spend so much of his already-packed schedule overseeing Dorian’s recovery. 

That, and weekly chess games, which Dorian was starting to be certain were one of the only times Cullen took a break from his work, other than, perhaps, to steal a few hours with the Inquisitor here and there. Despite the oddness of it, Dorian appreciated their tentative friendship.

It was while they were playing one day that there was a commotion outside the courtyard, in the direction of the gates. Commotion was hardly unusual, particularly as parties were coming and going, but as a rule, Dorian knew, Cullen was aware of all such events. Dorian could tell from the way Cullen had his head tilted, his eyes a bit unfocused, that he wasn’t certain what was happening.

Dorian tapped the table and cocked his head in the direction of the sounds. Cullen nodded. “Yes, I apologize.”

Dorian shook his head and strode alongside Cullen to see what was going on. When they got to the gates, the sight that greeted him took a moment to process, a moment in which he nearly gave in to the flight instinct that reared its head quite forcefully inside him. The group being detained was from Tevinter. 

Making himself focus, because he owed Cullen, the Chargers, Josephine, Varric, Madame de Fer, and the Inquisitor, and that was roughly six times the number of people from Tevinter that he had any allegiance to, his gaze caught on the house banner, and before he knew he was going to do it, or even that he could, he said, “Mae.”

Cullen said, “I—excuse me?”

Given that until that moment, Cullen had no idea Dorian even _could_ talk, that seemed a legitimate response. Dorian gestured for him to follow and wove his way through the entourage to the center where, sure enough, he found her. “Mae,” he said again, this time louder, and she turned, seeing him.

Days of being on the road and she was as pristine and colorful and glamorous as always. All Dorian could see was the way her eyes rested on him, as if checking that he was truly there. He nearly ran the rest of the way to her and she pulled him into her arms without an ounce of hesitation. “You’ve grown, my dear.”

He laughed, his fingers curling into her robes, closing his eyes against tears. She allowed it, stroking at his hair. “Oh, Dorian.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, because he’d had time now to get acquainted with the politics of the situation, to even point out possible strategies for Josephine to engage in terms of gaining supporters.

“And if anyone asks, I was not.”

He stepped back and eyed her party, letting his doubt show on his face. She laughed and said, “You were too young to teach all of my best tricks when you were sent off. Trust me. I can only stay for a couple of days, but I can stay with nobody the wiser.”

“It’s impossibly good to see you.”

“Given that you were the one presumed dead, I’m fairly certain that’s my line.” She smiled, her eyes a touch too shiny. “Now. I do believe my cousin-by-marriage and age-old flirtation are both hiding out in this dusty old keep. Know where I can find either Varric or Josie?”

Dorian did a quick sweep of the area and found Leliana on the outskirts, chatting with Cullen, who had evidently gotten free of the melee once assured they were not a threat. He made a courtly gesture for her to join him. “I’ll be your guide.”

* * *

Bull liked Mae. Of course he did. Bull liked most people unless given reason not to, and Mae was fierce and funny and had a good heart that she’d managed to keep intact, despite the dictates and pressures of her upbringing and role as a Magister. She was easy to drink with, someone to admire, and by the second day of her arrival, Bull was considering not getting out of bed.

His bed was comfortable, after all. And Dorian was safe. Aside from the fact that having developed inroads with the Chargers and most of the Inquisitor’s inner circle had helped make him less of a target, with Mae here, it was very likely he would be able to complete the months of regaining his control, and finalize the work on his staff. And he spoke to her, even in front of others. Sure, he still didn’t speak directly to anyone other than her or Bull, but that would come. In short, Dorian did not need him anymore.

Bull was aware that should make him happy, at the very least happy for Dorian. Rather, he felt untethered. The loss of focus and purpose that should have followed becoming Tal-Vashoth seemed to settle over him, just when he thought perhaps he had outrun it. He had always imagined madness would look the same on him as he had on those he’d fought on Seheron, but perhaps in his case, it was simply this bone deep, painful apathy.

It had been there all the time, he now realized, waiting for him to no longer be necessary. With Dorian established enough to handle the rest for himself, though, the cracks in his barrier of forward motion had widened just enough for the flood of loss, of grief, to spread into his chest, his mind, down through his fingers and toes. 

It wasn’t as though they had a job, just then. He would get up, for a job. Of course he would. For the moment, however, he’d just go back to sleep.

* * *

Bull was sleeping when Briarill stomped into his room and said, “Get up.”

Bull, not being entirely awake nor particularly wanting to be, muttered, “Later, boss.”

“Oh, for—” 

The next thing Bull knew, he was dry heaving over the side of his bed, the pain in his balls making him question what he’d done to be born. 

“Paying attention now?” she asked.

“What’s a guy gotta do to get some rest in this shithole?”

“First of all, you’ve been ‘resting’ for three days. Stitches came up to check that you didn’t have a fever two days ago, and Krem came up yesterday to check that you weren’t dead, so stuff it.”

Bull blinked at this information. He couldn’t remember ever sleeping three days. 

“Secondly, I have a job for you, and I still pay your salary.”

Bull rubbed his face and noticed he wasn’t wearing the patch. Briarill hadn’t seemed to notice, but she did reach over to his side table and hand it to him. “I need you and Krem, along with whomever else you deem necessary, to get Magister Tilani and her escorts to Val Firmin quickly and without being noticed, and then bring yourselves and my altus mage back safely.”

“Boss—”

“She requested the two of you. And since she just pledged more support than Josie’s been able to wrangle out of any single house in either Orlais or Nevarra in all the time she’s been buttering those cockstands up, I’m disinclined to deny the request. Even were I, Dorian wishes to go as far as he can with her, and I’ll not have him traveling back solo.”

“Right. Yeah, ‘course. Sorry, boss.”

She crouched so as to be on his level. “I don’t know where you went for the last three days. But. Wherever it was, please don’t do that again. I can’t do this without you. And whether I, personally, matter to you or not, I should hope the fate of the world matters.”

Bull shook his head. “You don’t. Need me. Aside from the fact that Krem knows the Chargers are yours until you explicitly release them from the contract, Cullen will bring the world to its knees for you. Not to mention Ma’am’s healthy self-interest in your continued success, Sister Nightingale’s willingness to burn you a path to victory, and Josie’s equal willingness to happily be by her side. And Dorian. You must know he will be yours from here on out.”

Softly, she told him, “This is not something you get to argue with me about, The Iron Bull. Even were I not your employer, you’d have no right to decide what my needs are.”

The truth of that hit him, and a moment later, the shame of attempting to override her beliefs. 

Whatever she saw in his face must have been enough because she said, “Go to Val Firmin. And come back. That’s an order.”

* * *

It was obvious to Bull within half a day that, “You didn’t need me or my men. In fact, we make your camouflage harder.”

Mae said, “Much harder indeed, The Iron Bull.”

He glanced over at her, trying to assess if he was correct in hearing that both as a true answer and a double entendre. She quirked a smile. “Ex-Ben Hassrath, if my feelers are correct.”

“Ma’am,” Bull said tiredly, but with respect, “if you don’t mind—”

“No, you’re right, I’m playing like a ‘Vint. My husband would have been ashamed of me.” The last was said quietly and with a depth of feeling that made Bull wince. She took a breath. “I take it Dorian has spoken with you. Josie informed me that until I showed up he hadn’t spoken, but Dorian said otherwise.”

“I helped free him; I think it’s simply a mental link with safety.”

She looked at him for a long moment. “There are a number of things I could say to that. I suppose, though, the only one that matters is the question of why you’re lying to yourself. If it’s because the thought of pursuing a relationship with an altus bothers you, then I ask that you stay far away from him. His heart has been battered and thrown away by enough people.”

She loosened her hold on her reins. “Alternatively, if it’s because you think you are alone, or undeserving, or whatever else it is we tell ourselves about why we’re not good for others, I’d beg of you to pull your shit together, because what he deserves is someone who’s as capable of standing on their own two feet as he is.”

“His nightmares are filled with people who look like me.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Dorian would be the last to judge a person based on where he comes from.”

Bull granted that point. And then, because he had slept for three days straight and still felt weary in his joints, the fabric of his muscles, he said, “I do not know who I am anymore. I am not Hissrad. And The Iron Bull was a fiction created to hide Hissrad. If Hissrad does not exist, then The Iron Bull certainly does not.”

She snorted. “That’s one of the dumbest things I’ve ever heard and I deal with magisters on a regular basis.”

He scratched behind one horn. “Ah—”

“You were _assigned_ the role of Hissrad. If we were all simply the roles we are assigned, my life would have looked considerably different and I probably would have ended it by my own hand. I knew who I was, regardless of what the world told me. You did too, you _do_ too, you’ve just been conditioned to think you don’t have the right to own your choices, your steps.”

“The two are not the same,” Bull said. “You are not a creation, a character, you are simply yourself.”

Mae raised one perfectly painted eyebrow. “I’m not a creation? Do you think I wake looking like this, darling? If so, that’s rather sweet, but—”

“You don’t use the makeup to hide, you use it to frame, to show.”

“I use it because I like it. Because it is pretty, and I enjoy pretty things, enjoy _being_ a pretty thing. I could go without it, certainly, but I’d miss it. My every day experience would be lessened.”

Bull considered stripping the elements of him that made up this persona. The friendships with his boys. His unabashed enjoyment of pink baubles. His pride in his horns. The parts of himself he’d felt compelled to _hide_ in order to be Hissrad.

“You made the choice as to who you really were when you took a mage kid who meant nothing to you away from the order that had defined your entire existence. You made the choice the moment you decided what Hissrad would do in that situation was wrong. I’m not without sympathy. It cannot be easy, giving up something that allowed you to move forward without having to necessarily take responsibility for how you got there. But you chose The Iron Bull. Have the courage to live with that choice, rather than allowing it to drown you, simply because that very order told you it would.” She pursed her lips. “The courage to live with it, the horns to _revel_ in it.”

He snickered reflexively at her choice of words, and then, after a moment, followed the feeling and let himself laugh. It calmed him, almost like he’d forgotten the muscle movement, but reminded, it came back naturally. As though perhaps that was his truth, and not the grief, the feeling of being lost. “Revel, huh?”

“Revel,” she repeated, her smile bright with challenge.

* * *

They arrived in Val Firmin without any problem. Mae had let an estate for the duration of their stay: long enough to make a splash, a distraction. Dorian trusted her to keep herself and her people safe. There was really no reason for him, Bull, and Grim to stay, indeed, it made far more sense for them to leave. She said, “Don’t go back just yet. Keep me company another day or so.”

Dorian couldn’t even pretend he was going to deny her. He’d forgotten how warm it felt, being around her, as though she shone with the power of the very sun. Now that he had been reminded, it was hard to conceive of letting go again. He’d done harder things, and for all their sakes, he would do this one. He didn’t have to like it, though.

A few hours after their arrival, she came up to the room where he’d settled with a trunk that had evidently come by post. “Well,” she pressed her lips together, “this will not be as glorious as if I could have had you fitted for it, but it will have to do.”

“Mae—” he started.

She slashed a hand through the air. “You are Dorian Pavus, rightful heir to the Pavus Magisterium seat, most powerful necromancer in more than an age, a surviving prisoner of war, and one of the best men I know. You deserve to be clothed in something better than ill-fitting hand-me-downs.”

Quietly, he said, “I spent two years naked and bloodied, Mae. And I had no coin or magic or anything to trade for these hand-me-downs. They were given with kindness, and they have kept me warm.”

She set the trunk down and walked to him, tipping his chin up with her hand. “I approached that poorly. I want you to take this gift. It is given with love and pride. When I first began dressing in a way that was truly reflective of who I was, it was both such a tiny act and such a world-shifting one, all at once. Our skins are not so thick as a bear’s or a dragon’s, we need extra layers with which to build and protect ourselves.”

Dorian took a moment to consider that before nodding once and going over to the trunk. He opened it and unpacked what amounted to two outfits worth of casual wear, and three different mages’ robes, all of them utterly decadent. At the bottom was a lacquered box filled with various shades of kohl. He whispered, “Mae.”

“Is it right? Because I can—”

He looked over at her. “It’s right.”

She smiled and swept out of the room with a, “Don’t be late for dinner, gorgeous.”

* * *

The Iron Bull had spent a considerable chunk of his adult life as a spy, someone trained in, and capable of, getting in and out of smaller spaces than he should have even fit in without alerting anyone. Of camouflaging himself in situations where he should have stood out like a sore thumb. He was a warrior of the Inquisition, and had survived many a dragon hunt that the dragon had not.

When Dorian strode into the dining room wearing the impossibly complicated concoction of buckles and leather that Tevinter nobles considered everyday wear, his hair glossed, eyes painted, Bull very nearly tripped over his own feet.

Mae, who had entered with Dorian, smirked at him. Dorian, for his part, stood more naturally in the clothing, and Bull thought that at seventeen, before everything, he’d probably had enough sass to level entire continents. Now, he was just still, aware of everything around him, ready to handle threats and clearly feeling more prepared in an outfit that fit him.

Before Dorian, Bull would have told you that anyone under twenty-five wouldn’t have interested him. He’d believed, quite ardently, that confidence and a clear impulse for fun were the things that most turned him on. It turned out Bull knew fuckall about his own tastes, because as far as he could tell, the hottest thing in the world was a man who could barely be called such in terms of years, and who justifiably treated the world as a hostile force.

A man who was an open invitation to demons that would make of him an abomination. A man whose willpower was so replete he’d chosen not to speak for two years, rather than betray those who had already betrayed him.

Bull approached them and said, “Looking a bit more like yourself, I suppose?”

Dorian tilted his head. “Perhaps. That’s rather a mystery, I would argue.”

“If so, one only you’ve the right to solve.” Bull watched Dorian consider that. Thinking of his conversation with Mae that morning, the new boundaries of his own self he was finding, he asked, “It’s not set in stone for any of us, is it?”

Dorian’s eyes widened for just a moment, taking in Bull. Quietly, he said, “I suspect the danger is when it becomes set.”

Bull blinked, but Dorian continued, “That…that was what happened with my father, I think. There was one thing he could be, one line of his narrative, and I didn’t fit inside that story.”

Inanely, Bull thought, _a tree that cannot bend will break._ He smiled a little at the ground. None of them were broken.

* * *

It wasn’t conscious, the way Dorian carried himself differently in the clothing Mae had given him, but he could feel it nonetheless. And he could see its effect in the faces of others.

It wasn’t just appearances that were making things easier, though. Cullen and Vivienne were in agreement that his control was as strong as it had ever been, now it was just a matter of him “rebuilding muscle” as it were, which wasn’t something either of them could help with. At which point he spoke to the first people outside of Mae and Bull to say, “No, I can take care of that myself. I—I often did a lot of self-study even before. Necromancy isn’t a popular craft and nobody likes the kid who’s more powerful than anyone else in the Circle by the power of magnitudes.”

Cullen did his best not to look surprised. Vivienne just snorted. “And you were such a humble little thing, I’d imagine.”

Dorian flashed her a rueful smile. 

The Chargers agreed that he could practice battle magics with them. It was easy to talk to them, having managed to expand the circle once already. He kept his sparring tactics to fire and shielding and other basics that were mutable and useful in a fight. He worked on the necromancy at night, in areas of Skyhold where others rarely frequented. They were a gold mine for dead creatures and he was unlikely to be disturbed. That part came back in such a sweet rush that the first night he tried, he barely managed to get himself to go to bed before dawn, and was a disaster most of the next day.

Lavellan sat down with him and Bull at breakfast one morning, a couple of weeks after Mae had left. Dorian, who was fighting against his continuing tendency to be made nervous by her authority, blew on his tea and said, “Good morning, Inquisitor.”

“Morning boys.” She took a bite of fruit and asked, “What would you think about going on a mission, Dorian? Crew’d be me, Varric, Bull, and you. Destination is the Hissing Wastes, which is about as inviting as it sounds.”

Dorian glanced at Bull, who shrugged. “Told her from what I could see you’re more than ready.”

“Cullen agrees, as does Vivienne. Even Solas reluctantly mentioned that for a ‘Vint, your skill is passable, which I’m pretty sure means he’s impressed and mad at himself for being impressed.”

Dorian hadn’t noticed Solas watching him, which was discomfiting. He shook that thought off and said, “I’d be honored to serve.”

“Great. Bull, make sure your boy has what he needs.”

“You know we aren’t romantically involved in any way, right, Boss?”

Lavellan made a dismissive gesture. “Oh, yeah. Everyone knows that.”

Dorian blinked slowly at Bull, not sure how to understand anything that had just happened. Bull mouthed, “Sorry,” which did not clear things up at all.

Bull stood, saying, “I’ll get right on that,” and Dorian got up to follow, with, “I should probably know what it is I need.”

Also, evidently, they needed to talk.

* * *

“Does everyone think we’re sleeping together, or just the inner circle?” Dorian asked.

Bull appreciated that Dorian had put himself on the side of Bull’s good eye. Dorian acted like he didn’t notice others or didn’t care about their needs, acted aloof, now that he had his clothing and his staff. No, Bull corrected. He’d always acted like that toward strangers, always used remove as a defense mechanism. He was just better at it now that he had the tools for it. And it was still just an act. 

“The girls at the Rest started it, I think,” Bull said. Best he could tell, anyway. The rumors had been going for a while. “I don’t think it’ll get in your way if you’re looking elsewhere, I’m not known to be a jealous guy.”

“Right.” Dorian looked at him oddly. “I’m rather more concerned about the perception that I’m a ‘Vint spy squirreling my way into the ranks by way of bending over.”

Bull considered lying, but as much as lying as an activity itself didn’t bother him, he disliked doing it to Dorian. It felt like taking away parts of the agency he’d clawed his way back into regaining. “Only some of the Templars, and Cullen’s made it clear that they’re gonna be on bunk cleaning duty until they figure their shit out.”

“I’ll talk with him.”

“Cullen?”

“It was one thing for him to fight my battles when I had no defenses. It is something else now that I do.”

“He’s not fighting your battles, Dorian. He’s disciplining the men underneath him for demeaning a member of the Inquisition’s Inner Circle.”

Dorian gave him a Look. “Perhaps in a few months that statement will be true. As of now I am, at best, an unproven ally.”

“Point being, Dorian, it’s his problem to solve.”

Dorian’s eyes flashed with annoyance, but he seemed ready to let the subject go for the moment. Instead, he asked, “Who is it, exactly, you think I might be pursuing in this illustrious camp of ours?”

Bull shrugged easily, even though the thought sat heavily in his stomach in a way that was unfamiliar and entirely unpleasant. “Plenty of Templars who aren’t complete cuntmunches. Dunno if you’ve noticed, but we’ve got a fair number of civilians running the day-to-day workings around here. Heck, for all I know you could be sweet on Stitches. Wouldn’t recommend that last, he’s weirdly fixated on women, but the heart wants what it wants and all that.”

It got Dorian to laugh. Bull bumped into him lightly. Dorian stumbled, but only a bit, his center of gravity strengthening with his returning weight. Bull looked down and asked, “Nobody just yet, huh?”

Dorian shrugged, which wasn’t an answer, and bumped right back into Bull.

* * *

Bull had known he was physically as well as emotionally attracted to Dorian. Even if there hadn’t already been a pull ever since he’d watched the guy hold himself on a horse while three-fourths dead and ride like he was born for it, the thing with the leather and the buckles and the shoulder—the _shoulder_ —would have made it clear.

Even so, seeing him fight Venatori was a revelation. There was no question in Bull’s mind that Dorian had been holding back where others could see him, keeping his secrets his own. It was like seeing a professional dancer, but with pyrotechnics. Dorian’s shields felt snug over Bull, fierce and impenetrable. And given that they’d only ever practiced together, their level of synchronicity was actually a bit strange.

Admittedly, Bull was more than a little freaked out when Dorian set what appeared to be a pack of fennec skeletons on a few of the Venatori, but it also kept them away from Briarill, and it was hard to argue with tactics that worked.

By the end, all of them were bloody messes, with sand in unmentionable places. Varric leaned on Bianca, took a look around and said, “Well then. That’s what Mae meant when she said necromancy, I guess.”

Dorian nodded sharply. “It’s not one of the more practiced disciplines.”

“Because people generally are made uneasy by the dead, or because it takes a significant amount of power?” Briarill asked, her eyes raking over the once-again-resting fennec bones.

“Both?” Dorian looked at her uncertainly. “It’s not…there’s no blood in it. It’s not evil.”

“Dorian, if I thought you were evil, I wouldn’t have brought you as my only mage while needing to deal with problems in the Wastes.” With that, Briarill said, “Let’s keep moving. This isn’t precisely my ideal spot for making camp.”

Bull watched as Dorian let that sink in, steadying himself with his staff before moving to follow.

* * *

The Hissing Wastes were a flaming cesspit of overgrown nug waste, but they were warm, and Dorian had to admit, he’d missed the feeling of sun beating down on him very much. He’d take whatever sky he could see and be grateful for it, but a sky that was trying to melt him was his preferred version. 

Travelling in the sand was hard-going, the constant struggle for balance draining, not to mention having to be ready to fight at any moment. By the time they made camp as evening was waning, Dorian barely managed not to stumble while getting his tent pitched. The skill itself was still new, something Grim had been working with him on, and he was embarrassed, but nonetheless grateful, when Varric came over and checked that he’d gotten it staked well enough.

A fire wasn’t possible, there was only just enough shelter that they wouldn’t be seen for miles by scouts, not so much that smoke rising wouldn’t alert others to their presence. Instead, they chewed on dried meats and fruits. Dorian was almost too tired to chew. He forced himself to, aware he needed the energy. He then crawled inside his tent, curled up in the bedroll he’d been issued, and fell asleep in between breaths.

He woke up to the taste of blood in his mouth, having bitten his own arm, which was probably for the best. If he’d been screaming half as loud as he had been at the desire demon in his dreams, he’d not only have woken the whole camp, they’d probably already have enemies upon them.

He took a deep breath and let it go, noting the mist it created. He didn’t want to get out of his bedroll, but he needed to wash out the bite, and if he was to get anymore rest before they set out in the morning—and given how tiring the Wastes were, he must—he was going to have to get his roll to Bull’s tent. 

He counted to three in his head and forced himself to sit up, and then, using the tiniest bit of magelight, found the vial of elfroot in his pack and dotted some along the lines of the bite. He closed his pack up again, made himself exit his bedroll in order to pick it up. He’d noted that Bull had set his tent up immediately next to Dorian’s, probably in case of something like this.

Dorian pulled a shield over himself, since he didn’t usually wake Bull, and wasn’t certain if doing so might be dangerous. He didn’t regret it when, upon lifting the flap to Bull’s tent, the other man sprang awake, knife at the ready. It took less than a second for him to focus, however, and say, “Dorian.”

Wincing, Dorian said, “Sorry to wake you.”

Bull shook his head, and then the whole of himself. “Nah. Shitty dreams?”

“The shittiest,” Dorian agreed, flashing for a moment to being back in that cell, to considering, even for a few seconds, the demon’s offer of freedom.

“You’re safe,” Bull said, flat, like it was a fact, despite everything around them, behind them and ahead of them.

Dorian, fool that he was, believed him. When he was near Bull it was just easy, no matter what, to feel like things would be all right. He came all the way in and snuggled back into his bedroll, against Bull’s side, warm even in the chill of the night. “Safe.”

* * *

Dorian spent the rest of their time in the Wastes sleeping in Bull’s tent. He knew the Inquisitor and Varric noticed. Both of them were kind enough not to make a big deal of it. And Dorian had been around long enough to know it wasn’t a natural inclination toward discretion on their part.

He showed his gratitude largely through doing his best for the rest of the venture to make sure none of them got so much as a scratch if he could help it. When they returned to Skyhold, Dorian could think of nothing he wanted so much as a long, hot bath.

Once he’d gotten the horse he’d ridden settled, he set about thinking of how to manage bathing privately with the least fuss. Bull caught him outside the stables and said, “Dinner in my room? I’ll bring in a tub.”

Dorian narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t say anything about a tub.”

“Who in their right mind doesn’t want to scrub every orifice they have and a few they don’t after being in the Wastes?” Bull asked.

“You make a fair point.”

“C’mon. Bath, warm meal, actual bed.” Bull was smiling softly.

After a moment, Dorian laughed. Bull cocked his head. “Am I missing something?” 

Dorian opened his mouth to answer, instead causing himself to laugh more. Before he knew it, he was holding himself up with a hand against the outside wall of the stables, his chest and stomach aching, and even then, he couldn’t stop. It wasn’t hysterical. He thought perhaps it had just been so long since he’d laughed without any sense of caution or control that his body was making up for time lost.

When he could finally breathe again, he wiped his eyes to find Bull watching him with an expression that was a cross between pleasure and concern. Dorian said, “Sorry, just. Bet when you offer that, usually, the person’s easier to, you know, _get into bed._ ”

Bull smirked. “Traditionally. Although, not sure I’ve ever offered precisely that combination of things. Then again, everyone knows things are better when you have to work a bit for them.”

“A bit. We’re…we’re calling being cut off from your people and having to step lightly around considerable trauma ‘a bit’?”

“Do you prefer smidgen?”

Dorian choked on a laugh. “I suppose smidgen will do.”

Quietly, Bull said, “When I offered my bed, I meant nothing more than what we’ve been doing.”

“I know,” Dorian matched his tone. “And I’ve no idea if I’m ready for something more.”

“The thought has occurred, though?”

Dorian gave him a tired look. “Told you I read all those trashy romances as a boy, didn’t I?”

“Yeah. Yeah, you mentioned that.” After a second, Bull nodded, and started back toward his room. Dorian followed.

* * *

Dorian took one look at the hole in the ceiling of Bull’s room and said, “Surely you’re joking.”

Bull rubbed at the back of his head. “I should probably get that fixed.”

“And to think I had reserved my opinions regarding your lack of barbarity until now.” Dorian splayed his hand in the direction of the hole, and the wind coming in ceased. 

“Did you put a shield on the roof?”

“Do you have any better ideas?” Dorian raised an eyebrow.

“I’m going to get us a tub,” Bull said, evidently knowing better than to try and answer that. “Now that you’ve got your magic back you can heat the water, right?”

“Is having me pull water from the Fade going to harm your delicate Qun sensibilities? Because if not we can forego bothering anyone for water, let alone heated water.”

Bull said, “I’ll try not to have a case of the vapors.”

Dorian hadn’t had a ton of sexual experiences before the army. He hadn’t really had friends in the Circles and it wasn’t the easiest to find other boys like himself who wouldn’t rat him out. There’d been some sloppy kissing with a boy he’d met while skipping out on lessons, and a few alleyway handjobs, but his first experience with penetrative or oral sex had been consistently perpetrated rape.

He wasn’t certain who he was as a sexual being, or even who he wanted to be. There was a part of him, the part that really liked Bull’s arms and shoulders and chest and thighs and the way his smile filled a room, that wanted to get naked and wait for Bull to return and say something nice about Dorian, find Dorian enticing.

There was another part—and it was the part that would win, Dorian could feel it—that was terrified that all Bull would see was the burn scars littering the insides of his elbows, backs of his knees, insides of his thighs, his lower back. Or the jagged knife scars over his breastbone and heart that Dorian was pretty sure formed a derogative term in Qunlat. The scattered remnants of cudgel and whip marks. 

And even if Bull were to find him enticing, Dorian was not quite sure what he would _do_ with that. He was mostly certain he would like to be kissed. That is, so long as he was not held down, or incapable of escape. But was just kissing something that adults did? Or did kissing implicitly lead to other things? Because Dorian thought he might accidentally light Bull on fire if they tried anything else. He didn’t trust his control when he was that terrified. It was one thing in battle, when he needed the magic for survival. It was another when he didn’t want to kill the other person in the room.

By the time Bull returned with the tub, Dorian had worked himself as close to a full-fledged panic attack as he could get without being in the middle of one. Bull took one look at him, set the tub down, stood away from the door and asked, “You need to go downstairs and be around the others? Varric’s already starting a game. A bunch of the Chargers are in.”

Dorian stared at him miserably for a moment. “I don’t _know_ what I want.”

Bull nodded. “You’ve been through a lot. Makes sense. How ‘bout, for now, you take a bath while I go get us some food? I can go second.”

Dorian reached into his bag and found the coin he had put in the inner pocket. He stood and held it out to Bull. “Stew and wine, please? Emphasis on the wine?”

Bull gave him a half-smile, and took the coin. “Sure. Take a bath.”

* * *

The hot water and the feeling of being clean after so many days of sand and filth did help Dorian come back from the knife’s edge of pure anxiety. Bull returned while Dorian was still in the tub, and set a tray of food and bottle of wine on a desk in the corner. “Want me to run and grab you something of your things, or are you good with me stealing something from Grim for the moment?”

Dorian said, “So long as it’s clean.”

Bull saluted sloppily, and slipped back out. Dorian did the last of his washing, and then stood, wrapping himself in the towel Bull had left within reach. It dwarfed him, and Dorian was enjoying the plush softness of it when Bull came back in. Dorian held the towel closely around him and said, “Your turn.”

The smile Bull trained on him was even softer than the towel. “Sure. Eat while it’s hot.”

“I can actually do what I do with the water to the stew, you realize?”

“Why waste the mana? Especially when you’ve got to be exhausted?”

Dorian almost lost his grip on the towel. “What? You—what do you know about mana?”

Bull frowned. “I asked Mae for tips on the care and feeding of altus mages. Is it a secret?”

Dorian sat on the bed. “Ah, not exactly, I don’t suppose. But it can certainly be a vulnerability and so we don’t just go around divulging how it works.”

Bull quirked a smile and set a pair of linen pants next to Dorian. “Guess she figured the information is safe with me.”

Dorian heard the implicit, _you are safe with me._

Bull turned his back, then, said, “Sorry it’s just pants. That’s all Grim sleeps in.”

Dorian pulled them on. They were a bit short, but he would only be sleeping in them. “I appreciate the loan.”

He got rid of the dirty water and replenished the tub with a clean stream, before heating it. “There you go.” That done, he sat on the desk and held the bowl of stew against his chest, as if it were a shield against Bull noticing the extent of the damage and scarring. He poured himself a cup of wine and swallowed a few good mouthfuls before diving into the food.

Bull had gotten in the tub so that he was facing where Dorian sat. Dorian caught his eye and then looked away. Calmly, and without any innuendo, Bull said, “It’s all right to look, Dorian. No shame in it.”

Dorian took another spoonful of the stew and chewed, letting his eyes roam over Bull’s broad chest, his shoulders. Bull was largely on display most of the time, but there was something different about knowing he was naked beneath the water, about it being just the two of them in this quiet room. Bull had scars, too. There were the ones around the missing eye, of course. Most of his body was covered in them, though, from the small ones to those that were severe enough, Dorian had to wonder how Bull had survived to have the scar.

Without thinking about what was coming out of his mouth, Dorian said, “I wish I’d met you before.” After a second, Dorian blinked and said, “Kaffas, I—”

“It wouldn’t have been the same,” Bull told him. “I might wish that you’d never had to survive what you went through, Dorian, but if I do, it means acknowledging that wishing that means wishing I don’t meet you, ever. And perhaps I should. Perhaps I should wish that you stay healthy in Tevinter and I never have to cut ties with the Qun, but I don’t.”

Dorian scraped up the last of the stew, considering that. “What if I spend the rest of my life being scared to do anything more than kiss? Than sleep beside you at night?”

Bull shrugged. “Is that something we have to worry about in this moment?”

“I’m worried.”

“Sure, but I think you like worrying.” Bull flicked some water in Dorian’s direction. It didn’t come even close to hitting him, but he laughed all the same. Bull grinned. “You want to kiss, don’t you? That’s something you didn’t want until now. So, we take things as they come.”

“I want to kiss,” Dorian agreed, “but that doesn’t mean I’m not scared to.”

“I suspect you’re scared of battling other mages and walking amongst Templars and a bunch of other shit you force yourself to do because it needs doing. I think if you want something, you’re going to grab for it, fear or no.”

“You have a very high opinion of me,” Dorian said.

“Pretty sure I’ve never bothered to care about someone I didn’t have a high opinion of.”

Dorian took another pull of wine. He set the cup down after that, though. He wanted to remember being kissed. No matter what, he wanted that.

* * *

Bull scrubbed himself quite thoroughly, not just because he’d noted Dorian’s fastidiousness in the area of cleanliness. The sense of smell was one of the strongest in terms of triggering memory, and Bull wanted to make certain his scent was clean, wiped of the traces of sweat and dirt that might trigger a fear response in Dorian, particularly on Qunari skin.

He got out and dried himself off, pulling on a clean pair of sleeping pants. Dorian handed him the other bowl of stew. “Warmed it for you.”

Bull took the bowl, and Dorian’s hand, placing a kiss on the latter. “You’re sweet, Dorian Pavus.”

“Don’t tell anyone. Wouldn’t want the Templars getting any ideas.”

“I’ve seen you in action, you could take them.”

Dorian appeared a bit startled by that observation. “Regardless, I’m sure the Inquisitor would be thrilled at having to clean up after that mess.”

“Briarill’d have your back.”

Rather than acknowledging that sentiment, Dorian said, “I’d rather not cause her to have to make that choice.”

Bull left well enough alone for the time being and ate the stew. When he had finished, he set the bowl aside and settled himself on the bed, his back resting against the headboard. Bull truly didn’t mind tents and bedrolls, but could admit privately he was starting to be very grateful to get back to his bed when missions or jobs were over. He glanced at where Dorian was standing, watching him. “C’mere.”

Dorian hesitated for a bit, then drew a breath and came to the bed, tucking himself into Bull’s side. Bull put an arm around him, and the two of them sat like that, quietly, for long enough that Bull said, “We can just sleep.”

“Can you lie down?”

Bull untangled himself from Dorian and laid back. 

Dorian twisted so he was on his knees at Bull’s side. “Can I touch you?”

“Anywhere you want,” Bull told him.

Watching Dorian never got old. It wasn’t just his beauty, which was significant. It was his curiosity, the hints of wonder that came over him at times. Dorian traced the planes of Bull’s face, learned the texture of his horns, discovered the different scars and divots on the skin of his torso. With his fingertips he memorized the top half of Bull. With each pass of his hands, some of the fear in him faded, replaced with a growing sense of familiarity.

He traced Bull’s lips for a good long while before lying alongside Bull, facing him. “I don’t know that I’ve ever been really kissed.”

“A crime, that is,” Bull murmured. “You’re very kissable.”

“Could you—” Dorian’s lips were parted, his gaze searching.

Bull leaned into him, and brushed their lips together. “Any time you want to stop, you just push away.” With that, he took Dorian’s lower lip into his mouth, sucking on it, worrying it with his teeth. Dorian made a soft sound of interest, and Bull took the opportunity to swipe playfully with his tongue. Dorian smiled against his mouth, swiping back. There was no question of his lack of experience. Normally, it would have put Bull off; he was past the point in his life where he wanted to be teaching people their own bodies.

Dorian knew his body, though. He just didn’t know pleasure. So Bull put everything he had into showing him, and as with everything else, Dorian was a quick study. Without either of them really noticing, at some point Dorian ended up lying atop Bull, the two of them sparring with tongues and teeth, playing with lips and wisps of breath.

Bull could not have even guessed at how much time had passed when Dorian gave a lingering kiss at the corner of his mouth and said, “I want to sleep here. Right here. Is it too much? Can you breathe?”

“It’s perfect,” Bull told him. “You’re just right.”

Dorian snorted, but he didn’t move, falling almost immediately into a deep sleep.

* * *

Bull had his roof fixed, and Dorian scraped some coin together and did enough favors here and there to get a Bull-sized bed in his room. It was nothing like the grand, sweeping romance he’d imagined for himself as a child and adolescent. Dorian wasn’t even certain it was a romance, for all that in his chest, it felt like one. He was a bit afraid to ask.

Now that he was back to fighting form, the Inquisitor was taking Dorian with her on missions fairly frequently, and Bull had gone back to accepting jobs with the Chargers. The nightmares were still a relative constant outside of when he was sleeping beside Bull. He would fight through the worst of it when on the road without Bull, and abuse lyrium if necessary to maintain his mana. 

Cassandra and Varric both seemed suspicious that something was going on with Dorian. He reassured them it was nothing that would affect the Inquisitor or any of them, and they left it at that. For the time being, at least.

Josie, however, caught him sleeping in the library one afternoon. He’d finished helping her for the day, and had thought to do some poking regarding Corypheus’ origins. Lavellan didn’t put much stock in his research, he knew, and Dorian wasn’t exceedingly hopeful it would lead anywhere. If it did, though, it would be worth the time invested.

Bull was on a job, and it had been a couple of nights since Dorian had slept the night through. With the text he was reading being both denser and more inane than the average Templar, it was no surprise he’d drifted off. He woke to the sense of being watched and had his shields up before he could even breathe.

Josie jumped back from the burst of magic, putting up her hands in a peaceful gesture. “Sorry, I’m sorry, Dorian, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Dorian swore under his breath, immediately releasing the shield. “No, I’m the one who’s sorry. I can’t expect to sleep in public areas and not be woken by others. I apologize.” Rubbing at his eyes, he asked, “Did you need something?”

She tilted her head, considering him. “You look exhausted.”

“Thank you,” he responded, sardonically.

“Dorian,” she said softly. “Are you not sleeping?”

“Is there anyone in these walls who doesn’t have nights of interrupted sleep? We are not living in peaceful times, I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“So that’s a yes, then.”

Dorian stiffened. “I’ve not shirked in my duties, nor endangered anyone here. I cannot help that my mind is not a restful place.”

“No, you cannot,” she agreed. “If I thought someone could help you, would you let them?”

“I won’t take sleeping draughts. They dull my reaction times.”

“Not like that. Like…I think you need a way to lance your wounds,” she tapped the side of her head. “Let them drain.”

Dorian regarded her warily. She said, “What is the one thing in the world Cole is always wanting to do?”

Oh. “Help. With the pain.”

She reached out just enough to touch his hand, brushing her fingers against his. “Let him help, Dorian.”

* * *

Cole was sitting at the table where Dorian and Cullen often played their chess game. He looked up when Josie and Dorian came into the courtyard, the third place they’d looked. Cole said, “I’ve been waiting.”

Dorian squashed the instinct to say, _and people find necromancy creepy._ Instead he smiled fleetingly at Josie. “I’ll find you later.”

“See that you do,” she said.

They parted ways and Dorian sat down at the table with Cole. “She says you want to help.”

“You carry more pain than your body has room for.”

“And if the pain…fit. Inside my body. Would that change things?”

Cole shrugged. “Might make you lower on the list of people I want to help.”

Softly, Dorian asked, “Does it hurt you? Others’ pain? Mine?”

Cole tilted his face even further forward, making everything but his chin disappear beneath the brim of his hat. “It’s loud. Always.”

Dorian considered the way his own pain screamed at him, battered at his defenses, then tried to imagine that multiplied by the other battle-scarred people within Skyhold’s walls. “Ah.”

“I can’t take it away.”

“If you could, I’d be worried about what you left in its wake,” Dorian told him. It wasn’t as if demons hadn’t offered him respite from the things that plagued him.

Cole looked up at him. “It—it helps that you want help. Are open to it.”

“What do I do?”

“Tell me what hurts.”

“It’s not physical.” Dorian frowned.

“No. And I can soothe you, ah, superficially. But to actually _take_ some of your pain, lighten it by sharing, for that, you’ll need to tell me about it.”

“Is that your way of saying I need to talk about my feelings?”

Cole cocked his head. “Sounds like you already knew that part.”

Dorian allowed himself a long, satisfying moment of dredging up every curse he knew. Then, without realizing he was going to start there at all, he asked, “Do you know, I think when my father first sent me off, there was still a part of me that thought I’d be some great war hero, conquer the Qun, return victorious? And then, despite my deviance, he’d have to accept me.” Dorian shook his head. “A child’s way of understanding the world.”

“You were a child.”

“Foolish as.”

“Why do you hate that boy more than the man who sent him to war?” Cole asked.

Dorian flinched. “I—” His breaths felt sharp in his chest, his throat.

Cole said, “That boy deserves your compassion. He did nothing other than to be true to himself.”

Dorian managed a breath, and it seemed as though his whole chest would crack open, break into pieces. He choked on his exhale, barely caught his sob. Cole touched his hand, the lightest of touches, and the sob tore free.

* * *

Once Bull had gotten the boys settled, and reported to Cullen and Leliana on the pieces of information he’d picked up here and there on the road, in turn being briefed on where Briarill, Solas, Sera, and Blackwall were at the moment, he struck out to find Dorian. The library turned up nothing, nor did the practice yards, the tavern, the meal halls. 

Leliana had said he wasn’t helping Josie, so despite it being mid-day, Bull went over to Dorian’s room and knocked on the door. After a moment, a charmingly disheveled, blinking Dorian answered it. “May I help—oh. I missed your return.”

Thinking of the chaos that had reigned inside the gates for a good hour after they’d gotten back, and the direction of Dorian’s window, Bull said, “You must’ve been really asleep.”

Dorian stood back to let him in the room, shutting the door behind him. “Cole’s been helping…root out my more metaphorical demons, I suppose. He says for it to work I have to sleep when I can. Daylight helps. I think my brain knows a bit better that I’m not back there, with the light. And while I recognize that’s not a viable solution whilst out with the Inquisitor, here it doesn’t make much difference if I write pretty letters for Josie and research things nobody suspects matter during broad daylight, or through the night.”

Bull sat down on Dorian’s bed, feeling the ache of travel a bit more than he wanted to admit. “You know if you asked, Briarill would wait to take you out until you had things under control.”

Dorian said, “I don’t think my confidence in my place here is quite ready for that test.”

Bull blinked. “I think whatever you’re doing with Cole might be working.”

Dorian let out a helpless bark of laughter. “Yes. Believe it or not, it’s not quite so enjoyable that I’d keep at it if I thought otherwise.”

“Should I let you go back to sleep?”

“Under no circumstances. I can’t have Skyhold thinking I’ve loosened my blood-magic charms over you so quickly. Come, let’s go for a meal, you can tell me stories of things you’ve slaughtered over the last fortnight.”

Bull said, “There was some quality slaughtering, and I do like fattening you up. Don’t think we’re not gonna talk about whoever’s spreading the blood-magic rumors.”

“Well, I’m not entirely certain it’s not Leliana, trying to keep the Templars in line.”

Bull stilled at that. “No, Dorian, it’s not.”

“I wouldn’t fault her,” he said. “Use what you’ve got, and all that.”

“I would. Fault her. I would, and more importantly to her, Josie would, as would Briarill and Cullen. If she wants to play up your necromancy to put the fear of Andraste in whoever’s still giving you shit, fine. If she wants to make out like you have hidden, but perfectly legitimate abilities that will put them in their place, fine. But spreading rumors that you’re engaging in evil practices? Would it be okay if she was doing that about Sera? Dagna? Me?”

He saw Dorian go tense at that last suggestion. Bull said, “Precisely. Friends don’t do that to each other.”

“I doubt Leliana would consider herself my friend. Which does not offend me. Our paths have mostly crossed professionally, and she has shown support when I’ve most needed it. I couldn’t reasonably ask any more of her. I’ve not really extended friendship on my part.”

“Setting aside that friendship is not always a matter of quid pro quo, you are a part of the inner circle. Friend or not, you are one of us, and you have shown loyalty. Nobody gets to make a demon out of you, even if it’s supposedly in your interests.”

Dorian studied him silently for a moment, and then said, “I missed you.”

Bull smiled. “Missed you too, Big Guy.”

“Even with all the slaughtering?”

He let his smile grow into a grin. “Even with.”

* * *

Bull didn’t overlook the fact that Briarill made it a point to take either Cole or himself on the jaunts where she considered Dorian to be her best asset in terms of mages. Dorian didn’t either, and was fast becoming so fierce about protecting Briarill, there were times he reminded Bull of a mabari who’d been adopted and finally shown care. He did not plan on mentioning that to Dorian. Ever.

Instead, one of the times when Briarill had taken Cole without Dorian, Bull asked, “Wanna come on a job with me and the boys?”

Dorian said, “Hm, I suppose that depends on the job,” but he was already smiling, his eyes bright with interest.

“Bordertown near Nevarra has a little wyvern problem.”

“The problem is little, or the wyvern is?”

Bull grinned. “Probably neither, given what they’re offering.”

“Sounds pretty risky. What’s my cut?”

“We do an even split. But I know the boss, I could probably get a bottle of wine thrown in for your troubles.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “Is that all? You might not have heard, but I’m a rather skilled mage.”

“We’ve got a mage.”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “You’ve got a particularly lucky archer.”

“I’m starting to see how you’ve bizarrely become Dalish’s favorite at some point while Rocky was looking the other way.” Bull tilted his head. “All right, what is it that you believe will make your oh-so-valued assistance worthwhile.”

“You mentioned knowing the boss.”

“Yeah, I’ve got connections.”

“Might he be willing to throw in some, ah—”

Bull saw the moment where Dorian lost all his bravado and fell back on flustered nerves, but went on anyway, because that was Dorian.

“—sexual favors?”

Bull didn’t move toward Dorian, and kept his voice quiet. Even so, he was quick to say, “I feel like that could be arranged. For your aid.”

Dorian rocked back on his heels. “You have yourself a deal.”

* * *

Dorian couldn’t even pretend not to be excited about leaving Skyhold to go somewhere with an actual inn for an adventure that didn’t involve battling the corrupted magic of the Venatori. He did his best, sure, but it was clear he had failed when even Skinner bumped his shoulder while they packed up and smiled at him. She made sure to bare all her teeth, yeah—it was still a smile.

With one of her donations, Mae had sent a strong mountain horse with the note, “A proper mount for Altus Pavus.”

Dorian had offered the horse to the Inquisitor, insisting he’d done fine with the ones he’d borrowed when necessary. It was true; he was quite adaptable when it came to riding. She’d said, “Name the monster, I’ll make sure he has a stall at the stable.”

The horse was not one of the graceful breeds found in cities or as racers. She was the muscle and determination of an ox, but the dexterity of a horse. Without quite being able to explain it, Dorian had settled on Hegira, and she’d taken to the name. Privately, Dorian would admit that he loved having her, being able to learn familiarity and comfort, and the way that allowed him to train and engage in riskier moves at times when they were called for.

Riding out with the Chargers wasn’t like Dorian remembered it. He thought that was probably half perception and the vagaries of memory, and half that they weren’t fleeing from the Qun this time. The first few hours were spent ribbing Grim over something that was possibly going on between him and one of the scouts, although Dorian suspected it was more made up as a way to poke at Grim than anything serious. Then again, Dorian could acknowledge there was something alluring about Grim’s steadiness. For all Dorian knew, Grim had a harem and was simply better about being discreet than any other creature in Thedas.

Dorian would bet all the money he had, and some he didn’t, that Bull had put down one of his very few edicts as their boss that they not bother Dorian about anything happening between the two of them. It made Dorian feel that Bull still found him fragile, which only made it more frustrating that Dorian appreciated it. He wasn’t quite ready to join in that type of verbal jousting yet.

The town was a solid two-day ride, so they camped the first night, and nobody so much as winked at Dorian when he went to place his bedroll with Bull. Krem did catch him washing by the stream and say, “You’re not—you’re not bad, for being one of them. But you know he can be hurt, too, yeah?”

Dorian pressed his palms into his knees. “I’m not one of them.” He looked over at Krem. “Maybe I was, once. I don’t know. I do know that if I was, I haven’t been, not for a long time. Not even before that day on the battlefield.”

“When Magister Tilani—”

“I know she told you to call her Mae. And I also know the two of you got more sloshed than ten sailors put together and talked about things I doubt either of you has ever told another living person. Mae said some of it she hadn’t even told her husband, which was all she’d say on the subject.”

Krem tipped his head, granting the point. “When Mae writes, when she talks about you, references you, she calls you Altus Pavus.”

“That is a combination of Mae’s desperate need for an ally and her kind desire to treat me as she feels befits me. Just because I do not care to deny her anything doesn’t mean I agree or even acknowledge the title.”

After a moment, Krem said, “You’ve dodged my real point.”

“Largely because I find it preposterous that you would think I could be in love with someone and not be aware he has emotions and vulnerabilities. I suppose it is good to know how protective you are of him, although I had suspected.”

Krem blinked. “Ah. Have you mentioned—”

“No. Nor will you,” Dorian said calmly. 

“Dorian—”

Dorian made a slashing motion with his hand. “He already thinks that my attraction to him is half a sense of safety brought on by him having rescued me. It’s ridiculous, otherwise I’d be jumping the Chargers as a group. But for him it’s real. I won’t deny that my emotions are messy and complicated and that his entrance into my life can’t be separated from them. I also know the difference between gratitude and love. He’ll see it in me and believe it one day, or he won’t. And at that time, he’ll make a decision about what to do in response. Until that time, I don’t consider it to be a useful or necessary factor in our relationship.”

Krem took a solid minute to stare at Dorian with the eyes of someone whose soul has given up and fled its mortal coil. Then he said, “All right, let me know how that works out for you,” and went about his washing up.

* * *

When they reached the inn, Bull left Krem to get the rooms sorted and took Dorian and Stitches to finalize terms with their employer. Dorian asked, “Wouldn’t someone with actual experience make more sense?”

Bull opened his mouth to explain, but Stitches got there first, saying, “He wants you to see the business end of things. Also, for the customer to get a glimpse of that staff.”

“Ah,” Dorian said, and spent the whole meeting making small motions with his hands that Bull was completely certain were total bullshit, but cut through a whole lot of posturing on the side of the client.

When they got out of the meeting, Bull grinned at him and said, “What? No setting something on fire?”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “Let’s keep me in charge of subtlety for now, shall we?”

Bull laughed, and forbore mentioning his plans for later, which involved quite a bit of subtlety. Rather, they went back to the inn and discussed with the others, the information they had gathered, creating a hunting plan. They spent the last of the day’s good light canvassing the areas where the wyvern had been seen, but found nothing to suggest it was still in any of those spots. 

At dusk they returned to the inn. Dark would only give the wyvern an advantage. When they’d eaten, and Dalish was starting in on a story that Bull had probably heard at least a dozen times, he noticed Dorian slipping upstairs. Bull let him go, riding out the story, throwing in one of his own. Then he bid the boys goodnight with a look brooking no comments—he wasn’t certain what Dorian could hear upstairs—and made his way to the room they were sharing.

He knocked before coming in, then shut the door behind him and turned around to see—“Koslun’s balls.”

Bull couldn’t have stated with complete certainty what was different about Dorian, other than the fact that he was clearly naked beneath the coverlet draped over his lap. He thought there might be some gold lining mixed in with the kohl around Dorian’s eyes, that Dorian’s lips were perhaps a bit more glossed than normal. It could have just been the way the fire in the room reflected off of Dorian’s skin. Whatever it was, Dorian was impossible to look away from.

Dorian met his eyes, his expression a mixture of seductive and certain and completely insecure, somehow all at once. “I was, ah, promised. Sexual favors.”

“Second half of payment is received upon completion of the job,” Bull managed, despite the fact that his tongue felt roughly three times larger than his mouth.

“Quite certain you didn’t take me to your meeting today for my looks, exquisite though they are.”

Bull took a full moment to look Dorian up and down. “They truly are.”

Dorian’s eyes widened fractionally and he bit his lower lip before seeming to force himself to let go. “I—it doesn’t bother you? The paleness? The scars?”

“You’re paler than you remember being because you live in the Frostback Mountains after spending two years cut off from the sun, not because your skin has lost any of its pigmentation. And do _my_ scars bother you?”

“Your scars are battle scars,” Dorian said. “They are markers of courage and survival.”

Bull closed his eye for a moment so the rush of rage that statement—and what it suggested regarding Dorian’s understanding of his own scars—would not be visible. He opened it again, asking with studied neutrality, “What do you figure yours are?”

Dorian’s lips curled just slightly. “Someone else’s stains.”

“No, Dorian.” Bull came forward and sat on the edge of the bed, not touching Dorian. “No. They are, as you say, markers of courage and survival. Battles aren’t all on fields, and courage doesn’t have just one form. Those scars are your story. And maybe I should wish it were a different one, for you. But that would mean you weren’t the man in front of me, and as I’ve said before, now that I’ve met you, I have no interest in a lifetime where I’ve not.”

“That’s—a way of seeing me. It. Things.” Dorian shook his head as if to clear it. 

Bull enjoyed having flustered Dorian perhaps more than he should, but there was something so pure in the way Dorian lost himself the minute Bull said something real to him, something with emotion behind it. Also, an off-kilter Dorian could be a marginally more open Dorian. “When you bargained for sexual favors, was there something in particular you had in mind?”

“I…I thought perhaps we could bring each other off. With our hands.” Dorian kept his gaze steady on Bull, the way he did when he most wanted to look away.

Bull said, “I’m certainly open to that. Counterproposal: I taste every inch of you and _then_ we jerk each other off.”

Dorian blinked. “That’s…what you want?”

“I have a list of things I want, very long, all of them intended to drive you so crazy with pleasure you can’t remember your own name. But for this moment, yes, I would like that, if it’s something you think you’d enjoy.”

Another blink, this one slow. “I accept your counterproposal.”

“Excellent,” Bull said, and stood up to undress. He was aware of the way Dorian watched him, taking him in. They were still very much in the phase of getting used to each other, of getting to know one another. 

He approached with a measured pace, telegraphing his intent. When he reached the side of the bed, Dorian extended a hand, with his long, graceful fingers, and Bull took it in both of his, beginning there, sucking the length of them , nipping at the fine skin in between, swirling his tongue over the ridges of small scars and slightly larger ones, along the inside of Dorian’s palm.

Softly, Dorian murmured, “Bull.”

“Mm?” Bull asked, while sucking on a finger.

“Come,” Dorian said, pulling him further onto the bed. “Come,” he said, and laid himself out, pushing aside the sheet.

* * *

The look on Bull’s face, a mixture of delight and awe, made it hard for Dorian to think. If anyone had ever looked at him that way before, he couldn’t remember it. He thought, perhaps, his own expression matched it out of sheer inability to do anything else.

Bull’s mouth on his skin was by turns tender and playful, sexy, honey sweet with just an edge of naughtiness. Dorian learned that the barest crest of breath over the ridge of his ear was enough to steal his breath, that a soft kiss on the inside of his elbow could force sounds out of Bull he hadn’t known he even made.

At times it was impossible not to respond, to lick and nibble wherever his own mouth could reach. The whole time, Bull interspersed his oral explorations with murmurs of how gorgeous Dorian was, how he hadn’t even known there could be someone like Dorian.

When Bull closed his hand over Dorian’s cock, Dorian buried his mouth in Bull’s shoulder and screamed “amatus,” into the skin, while coming so hard he was certain he would fly apart, molecule by molecule. He held onto Bull with both hands, clinging as though that grip was the only thing keeping him anchored in the tangible world. 

Bull’s hands soothed their way down his sides, settling him back in his skin. “That was…”

“Yes,” Dorian said, swiping his hand through the spend on his stomach and gripping Bull’s cock. His fingers looked insubstantial in comparison, but even that was hot, the way Bull made cut off, helpless sounds despite how easily he could have overpowered Dorian in that moment. 

Dorian said, “Yes,” and rose up to kiss Bull, bringing their mouths together. It was one of the only spots Bull’s mouth hadn’t yet touched on Dorian’s body that night, and the moment their tongues came in contact, Bull tightened under Dorian, stiffening in response to his touch, and came. Dorian said, “Just like that, yes, so perfect,” and didn’t remove his hand until it was clear the contact was a little too much in the aftermath of orgasm.

Bull wrapped Dorian in his arms and asked, “All right? I’ll wash us in a bit, promise, just. Is this okay, for now?”

Dorian waited for the feeling of being trapped to come. After several breaths, he said, “More. More than okay.”

* * *

Dorian woke a bit too warm, which he decided was his new favorite experience. He made discontented sounds regarding being awake, and Bull’s amusement vibrated through him. Bull kissed the crown of his head and said, “C’mon, Big Guy. We’ve got ourselves a job to do.”

“We need to reassess our life choices,” Dorian grumbled. “Find a job where we get paid to lie about.”

“Let’s work on that after we’ve fulfilled this contract, yeah?”

“I suppose,” Dorian said, and flung himself out of bed with all the petulance he could manage. It was quite a bit. Bull watched in clear admiration.

He set to using a combination of the water basin and some basic magic to tidy up, then applied kohl to his eyes, and neatened up the mustache that was finally growing in healthy and with some luster to it. It would take quite a bit more shaping and patience before he could style it in the fashion plates Mae sometimes sent with her letters. For now, though, it gave the structure of his face a bit more maturity.

Skinner and Grim were already eating when Bull and Dorian got downstairs. Skinner said, “Krem’s ready, checking the mounts. Dalish’s waking the others.”

Soon enough everyone had eaten and they were on their way. Between the groundwork they’d lain the day before, and the fact that the wyvern had decided a nearby farmer’s nug would make a tasty midnight snack overnight, it wasn’t that hard to pinpoint where the creature had holed up for the day. 

Rocky used some of his explosives to draw it out of the cavern, and from there it was a bit like every morning in the practice ring, just with the intensity turned up. Dorian hadn’t truly believed he’d learn to enjoy the pulse of fear-based adrenaline in his chest ever again, but the sensation was entirely different with his magic crackling through him, his connection to the Fade strong, and his staff holding enough power to level the countryside. There was none of the sick sense of inescapable defeat or the worry of how badly he would break this time. Death was inevitable, and if he met it in this fierce space, with these others at his side, he would not cry foul.

In the end, though, the wyvern was dead, and while Grim had taken a rather nasty claw to his arm, Bull was stepping a bit gingerly on his bad knee, and Rocky was concussed, overall, they’d made out pretty well. Particularly given the price they’d get for the wyvern venom atop the rest of the contract money.

Krem and Skinner accompanied Bull to collect on the money. Dorian went back to the inn and arranged for meals for all of them, while Stitches saw to Rocky and Grim. Once things were handled with the innkeeper, Dorian went up to bathe, and if he spent a little longer looking at and soaping over the spots where Bull had sucked a bruise into his skin, or left the slightest imprint of teeth, well. He’d earned that right.

Dorian had also, so far as he was concerned, earned the right to chide Bull into seeing Stitches and making sure he hadn’t actually reinjured anything in his knee. And the right to scrub Bull up to his standards before they joined the others for the evening meal. Bull argued a little about the former, and none at all regarding the latter.

They were late to the meal. Dorian’s lips felt twice their normal size. Dalish pushed one of the bottles of wine toward their end, Stitches made a bit more room around the table, and the two of them sat down and joined in the celebration.

* * *

Less than a month after the wyvern expedition, Dorian accidentally adopted a black wolf cub, and Bull was injured seriously enough on a job that the Chargers had to bring him back by wagon. These two things where not related, except for how they happened somewhat simultaneously, and therefore Dorian could not untangle the events in his mind.

The Wolf Cub Incident occurred while working to get to a rift in order to close it. Lavellan had taken Cassandra, Cole, and Dorian, and they’d come upon a slight Bear problem while traveling. The Bear had recently taken out a small wolf pack in the area, and Dorian had used the pack as tools in his arsenal against the Bear. It was only afterward that Cole had discovered the survivor: a lone cub, near to already being buried in branches and leaves, bleeding from a claw swipe to his back and terrified from having witnessed his dead family rise again.

Lavellan said, “Cole, let me—”

Cole turned and said, “No,” without an ounce of apology or room for discussion.

Cassandra tried in any case, saying, “Cole, we haven’t the resources to see to the cub and finish the mission.”

Cole wasn’t looking at her, though. Cole was looking at Dorian, who in turn was seeing a bleeding child on the ground with no hope except an, at best, indifferent force. A child whose family had been killed in front of him, and who’d then seen their bodies used for the benefit of human and elven strangers. Dorian folded to the ground and stroked carefully along the ridge of the cub’s forehead. The cub did its best to snarl, push itself away.

“I know,” Dorian said. He took his water skin from his pack and wet one of the socks he’d brought, placing it against the cub’s mouth. After a moment, the cub began to chew the sock, ringing the water from it. “That’s it.”

Cole, in the meantime, had gotten out bandages. Dorian said, “Use water to clean it, we’ll give him some elfroot by mouth.”

Holding the cub through the washing and wrapping of the wound got Dorian clawed and bitten, but nothing too fierce, he noticed. Even a wounded cub could do an unresisting human pretty serious damage if it wanted, and this one wasn’t trying all that hard. Dorian gave him some dried meat, and then rewet the sock and returned it. Cole stayed with the cub while Dorian fashioned a swaddle from one of the blankets on Hegira. 

It was a bit of a fight to get the cub in it, but once he was inside, strapped to Dorian’s chest, he settled. Cassandra said, “Not much daylight left.”

Lavellan just smiled, though, and said, “Come on, then, da.”

* * *

Krem met them at the gates upon their return. By that time, the cub had a name, Cogita. Dorian had continued to see to his new charge, who, with doses of elfroot, food, and rest, was healing and regaining strength. Dorian still wanted Stitches to take a look at the wound.

All thoughts of that went by the wayside, however, when Krem said, “Bull’s been injured, Inquisitor.”

Bull being injured was not news. Their jobs involved injury. What Krem was saying was that Bull had been injured badly enough to bench him for the moment. Dorian’s breath caught in his throat with panic. The combination of Cogita struggling in the swaddle to lick Dorian’s face and Dorian forcing himself to realize Bull wasn’t dead brought him back.

The Inquisitor was still asking Krem questions. Cole said, “Go, I’ll take your mount to the stable.”

Dorian didn’t run, because he made it a policy not to let Templars see him acting concerned about anything. Thankfully, Stitches was having a drink in the Rest, so he was able to accompany Dorian up to Bull’s room and catch him up. “It wasn’t even the job, that was easy. We were heading back and followed a trail of something obviously not right to find a couple of bereskarn had decided to take over a farm. Unclear if the family noticed them in the territory and provoked them trying to get them away or what, but we couldn’t just leave them there.”

“No,” Dorian agreed, his hands curled over the swaddling.

Stitches blinked at that, as if just noticing it, then shook his head. “We thought we’d gotten them both down, Bull went in to make certain and it got one last swipe at his outer thigh. He’ll heal, but the blood loss was significant and it’s going to take some work to get his dexterity back.”

“What can I do?” Dorian asked. 

Stitches’ mouth curved up slightly. “Be here.”

“There must be—”

“Dorian. I—” Stitches ran a hand over his face. “You’re enough, all right? He thinks that. I think that. Shit, most of the inner circle thinks that. And nobody cares what Solas’ thinks anyway, he’s a giant cocknaught. If I need more or he needs more, I swear, I will tell you. But right now, what Bull needs is someone who’s going to put up with him when he’s sore and cranky and an unhappy mess. And Krem can and will if need be, only, we all know Bull would prefer you.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, so just. Go be with him.” Then, “Are you wearing a wolf cub?”

“His name’s Cogita. He, ah, needs you to take a look at him.”

Stitches blinked. “Right. Well, most of my stuff is in Bull’s room anyway, so that works out.”

Dorian nodded and murmured, “Thanks. Not just for Cogita.”

Stitches knocked shoulders with him and let it be.

* * *

Bull woke up to the awareness of Dorian being tucked against him in bed. “You’re back.” He then realized that if Dorian was next to him, he couldn’t be the weight on his chest. Bull craned his neck and asked, “Is there…a wolf pup sleeping on my chest?”

“Is he bothering you?” Dorian pulled himself into a sitting position.

“I, well, no, actually, he’s kind of warm and soft, but I’m still not sure what’s going on here.”

“I’ll catch you up, I promise. For now, his name’s Cogita, he’s healing from a bear attack, and he really, really likes being on your chest. I can’t say as I blame him, you’re an exemplary pillow.”

Bull smiled. “That so?”

Dorian bent down for a kiss and seemed to get stuck, not even in the kiss, just in the connection between them. Bull said, “Hey, hey there.”

Shaking a little, Dorian said, “I don’t—I know it’s the job, I know. But I was so scared, when Krem met us. When he said you’d been hurt.”

Bull grimaced a bit as he moved enough to tuck his arm around Dorian’s waist. Dorian put his hands to Bull’s shoulder with an admonishing, “Stay still, you fool.”

Cogita made a rumbly noise, but then smacked his lips and settled back into sleep. It was stupidly cute. Bull said, “I took the job because I hate being here when you’re out with the Boss. Lose my mind a little. It _is_ part of the job, and the job matters, but that doesn’t make it easier.”

Dorian said, “I just figured you were uh…watching out for me when I was here, and therefore needed to make up the time and money as much as you could while I was on the road.”

Bull allowed himself to give Dorian the most exasperated look of all time. “Yeah, you would think that.”

“It wasn’t a wild assumption. You rarely leave when I am here. Sure, every once in a while, there’s a job that comes to you through an old connection, or there’s something about it that means you need to deal with it directly. Most of the time, though, you send out different teams if possible. Then, soon as I’m gone, you’re on the road.”

“Couldn’t possibly be because I want to be around you when I have the chance, could it?”

“Of the possibilities, that was not the one I had marked as having the highest probability of likelihood.”

Bull stole a kiss. “That is a very long way of saying you didn’t think I liked you that much.”

“I simply was unwilling to take such a presumption for granted.”

Despite having just woken, Bull was tired, his body working to heal itself. It made it hard to decide if being too honest might spook Dorian. Outside of his professional endeavors, though, Bull had never lived his life with an abundance of caution. Seemed odd to start now. “I like you that much.”

Dorian curled up as much as he could given Bull’s hold on him, and said, “I—I like you that much, too.”

Bull let out a slow breath. “That’s good. That’s, yeah. Good.”

* * *

A few days later, Dorian met Cullen for their game in the courtyard, a mostly-healed Cogita sleeping happily in a patch of sun nearby, and afterward followed Cullen back into the main keep. Cogita stumbled sleepily along with them. Cullen gave Dorian a sidelong glance. “Something wrong?”

“No,” Dorian said. “Well, most likely not. I need to speak to Lavellan, and I figured following you had a good possibility of helping me attain that goal.”

Cullen laughed quietly. “Decent, I suppose.”

They spent the rest of the walk in comfortable silence, and sure enough, they came across Lavellan as they were nearly to Cullen’s office. She smiled at the two of them. “Who won?”

“Define ‘won’,” Dorian responded, which made her laugh.

Cullen moved past them, saying, “Stop by later,” to Lavellan.

Lavellan nodded and focused on Dorian. “I take it you needed something?”

“A favor,” he said. Then, looking down at Cogita, “Another one.” Then, considering his presence in the Inquisition, “We might need to stop counting.”

“Dorian,” she said quietly. “I don’t keep track of anything with those who have shown me loyalty.”

The idea that Dorian’s constancy in and of itself was worth something was still hard to get his head around. He gave her a tight smile. “Unless I’m needed, I’d ask that Madame de Fer or Solas be used for extensive missions until Bull is fully on his feet again.”

Lavellan dropped to her haunches and held a hand, palm up, toward Cogita without actually looking at him. Rather, her focus was on Dorian. “The answer’d be yes in any case, since I’d be a fool to mess with the morale of two of my inner circle in one go, but it was already in motion. Krem sent a formal request as Bull’s second and current-in-command that you be assigned to the Chargers until such time as Bull regains command.”

“Krem requested that?”

Cogita started sniffing around Lavellan, who kept her gaze focused on Dorian. “Krem is always going to have Bull’s best interests at heart.”

“I—of course.”

“Of course, he says.” She did look at Cogita, then, who gave her a rather decisive lick and skedaddled back over to between Dorian’s legs. Lavellan stood. “Your use is not solely in your firepower, Dorian. Nor is it always necessarily directly to me. You’ve proven yourself integral. Go, nurse my Qun bodyguard back to health.”

“I’m telling him you said those precise words.”

She bared all of her teeth. “Counting on it.”

* * *

It took Bull a couple of weeks to notice that Dorian was kind of living with him. Granted, he had been sleeping much of that time, and often otherwise having stitches checked, or being fed medication and food. One evening, tired, but not quite at the point of dropping off, he watched Dorian playing a rather confined game of fetch with Cogita, and teaching the pup to give the toy back gently.

“Have you gone home to sleep at all?” Bull asked.

Dorian looked over at him, expression uncertain. “Ah. That is…is my permission to share yours revoked?”

“No,” Bull said quickly, wanting no misunderstandings on that score. “Just figured you might like some space to sprawl out in. I’m taking up most of the bed right now.”

“It’s warm. I can—” Dorian shook his head, looked down at Cogita. 

“You can what?” Bull pushed, his voice quiet.

Dorian didn’t look up. He did say, “Feel your heartbeat. Know you’re safe.”

Said heart skipped a beat at the simple statement. Bull smiled. “Yeah, that helps me sleep, too. Gonna be hell, though, when the Boss needs you.”

Dorian made a bit of a face. “Mm, about that.”

“About that?”

“I begged a favor off our magnanimous Inquisitor, is all.”

“The kind of favor where she benches you until I’m back on my feet?”

“I believe she referred to it as ‘nursing her Qun bodyguard back from infirmity’ or something along those lines.” Dorian waved a hand.

“She did, did she?”

Dorian broke into a smile, toothy and bright and so full of mischief Bull had to laugh. Dorian said, “Maybe not the infirmity part. Maybe.”

Bull poked around inside himself for feelings of being confined by Dorian’s constancy, for indignation at the idea that he needed a nursemaid. All he could find, though, was a feeling of being distinctly part of something; being chosen in a manner he’d never known he wished to be, but the desire filled him now. “What I’m hearing is that I can be as terrible a patient as I want, and you’re stuck with me.”

Dorian’s smile became a little softer. “Definitely stuck.”

Bull swallowed around a lump in his throat. “Hey. You uh, wanna come up here and make sure my heart is still beating?”

Dorian pushed himself to his feet. “Can’t be shirking my duties to the Inquisition now, can I?”

As soon as Dorian was near enough, Bull reached out and gently tugged him down, Cogita following to make his own spot up between Bull’s horns. Bull placed Dorian’s hand over his heart, and then kept his own hand over Dorian’s. “Nah, we can’t have that.”

Dorian rested his head on the other side of Bull’s chest, closed his eyes, and said, “Not at all.”

Bull laughed softly, and his eyes slipped shut, the rhythm of Dorian’s pulse pulling him into sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the LLF Comment Project, which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback (but in no way expects or feels entitled to it!!) including:
> 
> Short comments  
> Long comments  
> Questions  
> “<3” or simply "kudos" as extra kudos -- caveat, I do not see actual kudos  
> Reader-reader interaction
> 
> LLF Comment Builder
> 
> Please note that criticism, constructive or otherwise, is not listed as a type of fb that is welcome, because it is not. I write and share these stories for free and as a hobby. You are entitled to not like this story, but if you feel the need to tell me that, or why, it will be immediately deleted and forgotten.  
> 
> 
> Author Responses: This author replies to comments. If you don’t want a reply, for any reason whatsoever, you feel shy, you have anxiety, just because, feel free to sign your comment with “whisper” and I will appreciate the comment and respect your wish that I not respond.
> 
> I can be found on tumblr @arsenicjade, the artist can be found on tumbr @halwardpavushatersclub


End file.
